Run With the Hunted (13 page)

He wiggled his toes. His all-consuming life going nowhere like a snail crawling toward the fire.

Leaves were growing upon stems. Antelopes raised their heads from grazing. A butcher in Birmingham raised his cleaver. And Harry sat waiting in a barbershop, hoping for a beer.

He was without honor, a dog without a day.

It went on, it went by, it went on and on, and then it was over. The end of the barber chair play. Paul spun Monk so he could view himself in the mirrors behind the chair.

Harry hated barbershops. That final spin in the chair, those mirrors, they were a moment of horror for him.

Monk didn't mind.

He looked at himself. He studied his reflection, face, hair, all. He seemed to admire what he saw. Then, he spoke: “O.K., now, Paul, will you take a little off the left side? And you see that little piece sticking out there? That should be cleaned up.”

“Oh, yeah, Monk … I'll get it …”

The barber spun Monk back and concentrated upon the little piece that stuck out.

Harry watched the scissors. There was much clicking but not much cutting.

Then Paul spun Monk toward the mirrors again.

Monk looked at himself.

A slight smile curled up the right side of his mouth. Then the left side of his face gave a little twitch. Self-love with only a twinge of doubt.

“That's good,” he said, “now you've got it right.”

Paul whisked Monk off with the little broom. Falling dead hair drifted in a dead world.

Monk dug in his pocket for the price and the tip.

The money transaction tinkled in the dead afternoon.

Then Harry and Monk were walking down the street together back toward the bar.

“Nothing like a haircut,” said Monk, “makes you feel like a new man.”

Monk always wore pale blue work shirts, sleeves rolled up to show off his biceps. Some guy. All he needed now was some female to fold his shorts and undershirts, roll his stockings for him and put them in the dresser drawer.

“Thanks for keeping me company, Harry.”

“Sure, Monk …”

“Next time I get a haircut I'd like you to come along with me.”

“Maybe, Monk …”

Monk was walking next to the curb and it was like a dream. A yellow dream. It just happened. And Harry didn't know where the compulsion came from. But he allowed the compulsion. He pretended to trip and lunged into Monk. And Monk, like a top-heavy circus of flesh, fell in front of the bus. As the driver hit the brakes there was a thud, not too loud, but a thud. And there was Monk sitting in the gutter, haircut, mole, and all. And Harry looked down. The strangest thing: there was Monk's wallet in the gutter. It had leaped out of Monk's back pocket on impact and there it was in the gutter. Only it wasn't flat on the ground, it stood like a little pyramid.

Harry reached down, picked it up, put it in his front pocket. It felt warm and full of grace. Hail Mary.

Then Harry bent over Monk. “Monk? Monk … you all right?”

Monk didn't answer. But Harry noticed him breathing and there was no blood. And, all of a sudden, Monk's face looked handsome and gallant.

He's fucked, thought Harry, and I'm fucked. We're all just fucked in different ways. There's no truth, there's nothing real, there's nothing.

But there was something. There was a crowd.

“Back off!” somebody said. “Give him air!”

Harry backed off. He backed off right into the crowd. Nobody stopped him.

He was walking south. He heard the ambulance siren. It wailed along with his guilt.

Then, quickly, the guilt vanished. Like an old war finished. You had to go on. Things continued. Like fleas and pancake syrup.

Harry ducked into a bar he had never noticed before. There was a barkeep. There were bottles. It was dark in there. He ordered a double whiskey, drank it right down. Monk's wallet was fat and fulsome. Friday must have been payday. Harry slipped out a bill, ordered another double whiskey. He drained half, waited in homage, then took the rest, and for the first time in a long time he felt very good.

Late that afternoon Harry walked down to the Groton Steak House. He went in and sat at the counter. He'd never been in there before. A tall, thin, nondescript man in a chef's hat and a soiled apron walked up and leaned over the counter. He needed a shave and smelled of roach spray. He leered at Harry.

“You come in for the JOB?” he asked.

Why the hell is everybody trying to put me to work? thought Harry.

“No,” Harry answered.

“We have an opening for a dishwasher. Fifty cents an hour and you get to grab Rita's ass every once in a while.”

The waitress walked by. Harry looked at her ass.

“No, thanks. Right now, I'll take a beer. In the bottle. Any kind.”

The chef leaned closer. He had long nostril hairs, powerfully intimidating, like an unscheduled nightmare.

“Listen, fucker, you got any money?”

“I got it,” said Harry.

The chef hesitated for some time, then walked off, opened the refrigerator and yanked a bottle out. He snapped the cap off, walked back to Harry, banged the brew down.

Harry took a long drink, set the bottle down gently.

The chef was still examining him. The chef couldn't quite make it out.

“Now,” said Harry, “I want a porterhouse steak, medium-well done, with french fries, and go easy on the grease. And bring me another beer, now.”

The chef loomed before him like an angry cloud, then he cleared off, went back to the refrigerator, repeated his act, which included bringing the bottle and slamming it down.

Then the chef went over to the grill, threw on a steak.

A glorious pall of smoke arose. The chef stared at Harry through it.

Why he dislikes me, thought Harry, I have no idea. Well, maybe I do need a haircut (plenty off everywhere, please) and a shave, and my face is a bit beat-up, but my clothes are fairly clean. Worn but clean. I am probably cleaner than the mayor of this fucking city.

The waitress walked up. She didn't look bad. Nothing extra but not bad. She had her hair piled up on top of her head, kind of wild, and she had ringlets hanging down the sides. Nice.

She leaned forward over the counter.

“You didn't take the dishwasher's job?”

“I like the pay but it isn't my line of work.”

“What's your line of work?”

“I'm an architect.”

“You're full of shit,” she said and walked off.

Harry knew he wasn't much good at small talk. He found that the less he talked the better everyone felt.

Harry finished both beers. Then the steak and fries arrived. The chef slammed them down. The chef was a great slammer.

It looked like a miracle to Harry. He went to it, cutting and chewing. He hadn't had a steak in a couple of years. As he ate he felt new strength entering his body. When you didn't eat often it was a real
event
.

Even his brain smiled. And his body seemed to be saying, thank you, thank you, thank you.

Then Harry was finished.

The chef was still staring at him.

“O.K.,” said Harry, “I'll have the same thing all over again.”

“You'll have the same thing all over again?”

“Yeah.”

The stare turned into a glare. The chef walked over and threw another steak on the grill.

“And I'll have another beer, please. Now.”

“RITA!” the chef yelled, “GIVE HIM ANOTHER BEER!”

Rita came up with the beer.

“For an architect,” she said, “you suck a lot of suds.”

“I'm planning on erecting something.”

“Ha! Like you could!”

Harry worked on the beer. Then he got up and walked to the men's room. When he got back he finished the beer off.

The chef came out and slammed the new plate of steak and fries in front of Harry.

“The job's still open if you want it.”

Harry didn't answer. He began on the new plate.

The chef walked over to the grill where he continued to glare at Harry.

“You get
two
meals,” the chef said, “
and
the grab.”

Harry was too occupied with the steak and fries to answer. He was still hungry. When you were on the bum, and especially when you were drinking, you could go for days without eating, oftentimes not even wanting to, and then—it struck you: an unbearable hunger. You began to think of eating everything and anything: mice, butterflies, leaves, pawn tickets, newspaper, corks, whatever.

Now, working on the second steak, Harry's hunger was still there. The french fries were beautiful and greasy and yellow and hot, something like sunlight, a nourishing and glorious sunlight one could bite into. And the steak was not just a slice of some poor murdered thing, it was something dramatic that fed the body and the soul and the heart, that made the eyes smile, made the world not quite so hard to bear. Or be in. At that moment, death didn't matter.

Then he was finished with the plate. All that was left was the bone of the porterhouse and that had been stripped clean. The chef was still staring at him.

“I'll have it once more,” Harry told the chef. “Another porterhouse and fries and another beer, please.”

“YOU WILL NOT!” the chef screamed. “YOU WILL PAY UP AND GET THE HELL OUT OF HERE!”

He came around the grill and stood in front of Harry. He had an order pad. He scribbled angrily on the order pad. Then he tossed the check into the center of the dirty plate. Harry picked it up off the plate.

There was one other customer in the restaurant, a very round pink man with a large head of uncombed hair dyed a rather discouraging brown. The man had consumed numerous cups of coffee while reading the evening paper.

Harry stood up, dug out some bills, peeled off two and placed them down next to the plate.

Then he walked out of there.

Early evening traffic was beginning to clog the avenue with cars. The sun slanted down behind him. Harry glanced at the drivers of the cars. They seemed unhappy. The world was unhappy. People were in the dark. People were terrified and disappointed. People were caught in traps. People were defensive and frantic. They felt as if their lives were being wasted. And they were right.

Harry walked along. He stopped for a traffic signal. And, in that moment, he had a very strange feeling. He felt as if he was the only person alive in the world.

As the light turned green, he forgot all about that. He crossed the street to the other side and continued on.

—
S
EPTUAGENARIAN
S
TEW

The landlord walks up and down the hall

coughing

letting me know he is there,

and I've got to sneak

in the bottles,

I can't walk to the crapper

the lights don't work,

there are holes in the walls from

broken water pipes

and the toilet won't flush,

and the little jackoff

walks up and down

out there

coughing, coughing,

up and down his faded rug

he goes,

and I can't stand it anymore,

I break out
,

I GET him

just as he walks by,

“
What the hell's wrong?
”

he screams,

but it's too late,

my fist is working against the bone;

it's over fast and he falls,

withered and wet;

I get my suitcase and then

I am going down the steps,

and there's his wife in the doorway,

she's ALWAYS IN THE DOORWAY,

they don't have anything to do but

stand in doorways and walk up and down the halls,

“Good morning, Mr. Bukowski,” her face is a mole's face

praying for my death, “what—”

and I shove her aside,

she falls down the porch steps and

into a hedge,

I hear the branches breaking

and I see her half-stuck in there

like a blind cow,

and then I am going down the street

with my suitcase,

the sun is fine,

and I begin to think about

the next place where I'm

going to set up, and I hope