Some Great Thing (37 page)

C
ORNER STORES ARE LIKELY
places.

“You seen my son? This is an old picture. He’s fifteen or so. Mohawk.”

“What color?”

“What?”

“What color is his mohawk?”

“I don’t know.”

“Fan?”

“What?”

“Fan mohawk?”

“What?”

“Is it a blue mohawk, orange fan mohawk, purple half mohawk, we get a lot of mohawks in here, sir, streetkids, punks, stealing things, sir, do you understand?”

“His name’s Jerry.”

“If I knew the names of the kids … if the kids stealing from me only left their names.”

“Yeah, well. How much are these wine gums?”

“A dollar.”

“Here’s a dollar. There. You’ve made your fortune. My son’s not a thief.”

“No, I’m sure he’s just another sweet kid with a mohawk.”

“Tell you what, buddy, having a mohawk and stealing sounds a lot cooler than selling wine gums.”

“You going to buy anything else?”

“No.”

“Get the fuck out of my store.”

T
HERE
’
S ANOTHER CORNER STORE
over there, but I might save that for another day.

Gas station?

No.

Flower sho … no.

Frui … no.

Pi …? Maybe. Kids like pizza. I fuckin love pizza. Try the pizza shop.

“Hi there, can I have one of them, one of those pepperonis, a slice, two slices, yeah, and, I was wondering, and a Coke, and I was wondering if you might have happened to see my son, name’s Jerry, his name’s Jerry, about fifteen. Here’s a picture.”

“I can’t touch, greasy fingers. Show me.”

“There—that’s about five years out of date. And he’s got, someone said he’s got some kind of mohawk thing on his head.”

“I’m not here at night. Most of those kids come here at night, you know, later. Ask Vinnie. He’s here at night.”

“OK. Where’s Vinnie?”

“He’s not here. That’s what I’m telling you. He’s here at night. Come back and ask Vinnie.”

“Thanks.”

“Five seventy-five.”

“Eh? Oh, right.”

I
COULD LOOK DOWN
some of these alleys, but, come on, he’s, what’s he going to do in an alley? I’ll look. I’ll have a look. What do you do down alleys? Fuck people, do drugs, get fucked, shoot people, get shot. That’s television. You park your car in an alley.
You put out your garbage. Is he eating garbage? Bet you Cooper taught him to eat garbage.

Is he still a virgin?

T
HE SHELTERS
! W
HAT AN
idiot! Try the shelters! Where’s he going to sleep? He’s not sleeping on the streets. Try a shelter!

Shepherds of Good Hope, Salvation Army, Keepers of Sweet God-Lovin Faith and My Jerry. He’s probably eating their soup and becoming a priest, the crazy little goof.

Here now. Shepherds of Good Hope. Jesus, look at the line. I don’t need to line up. I’m not looking for soup.

“Hey, buddy.”

“Whasssssssa?”

“Never mind. Hey, buddy.”

“Fuck off”

“Have you seen my son?”

“Get the fuck away from me, man, or I’ll shiv ya.”

“How do you get in here?”

“Quit butting! Quit butting!”

“Who’s in charge?”

“Quit butting!”

“I just wanted to speak to … where’s the shelter? Where do you guys sleep?”

“Tell that guy to quit butting!”

“Get to the back of the line!”

“I don’t want soup. I’m looking for my son.”

“Get to the back of the line!”

I
FOUND A GUY
, someone in charge. I thought he was a priest. I said, “Father, I’m looking for my son.”

“I’m not a priest,” he said. “I’m an ex-cop. Drunk. How old is your son?”

“Fifteen.”

“He’s probably not here. We don’t get many kids. I send them over to the Y sometimes, if they turn up here. Would you like some soup?”

“No thanks.”

There was a tiredness about him that reminded me of Kathleen. “Do you get many women here?” I asked him.

“Sometimes. Your son a woman?”

“No. He’s got a mohawk.”

“Yeah? There was a kid with a mohawk turned up here about a month ago. I told him the Y would be better for him.”

“Did he look like this?”

“Who’s that?”

“My son.”

“No, this guy had a mohawk.”

“The Y, eh?”

I
T WAS GOING TO
be easy now. I drove over to the Y right away. It was a much nicer place. It felt right, for a boy of Jerry’s taste: no drunks, front desk, etc.

“Do you have the names of people staying here?”

“What would you like to know?”

“Whether my son is here.”

“Why don’t you know?”

“Why do you care?”

“Because sometimes people are staying here because they don’t want to be at home.”

“Well, that’s not the case.”

“But you understand that for that reason I can’t tell you whether your son is here or not?”

“His name is Jerry McGuinty.”

“That’s nice.”

“Yeah, it is nice. Is he here?”

“Sir …”

“I’m not picking a fight. You know, I understand. But in this case … You see, it was his mother. I don’t have to tell you this.”

“No. And I can’t tell you who is staying here.”

“How does it work here? You have rooms?”

“Shared rooms and private rooms.”

“Private rooms are more expensive?”

“Yes.”

“I want to stay in a shared room.”

“I can’t let you do that. We’re full.”

“You’re full or you can’t let me do that?”

“I can’t let you do that because we are full.”

“Not because I’m Jerry’s father?”

“That’s right, sir, not because you’re Jerry’s father.”

“So he is here?”

“I didn’t say that.”

“You just said his name like you knew him.”

“I was only repeating what you said.”

“So he’s not here?”

“Maybe.”

“How long will you be full?”

“I can’t say.”

“Guess.”

“We’re always full.”

“I could force you by law to let me see my son.”

“How old is your son?”

“Fifteen.”

“No, you couldn’t.”

“I could squeeze his name out of you.”

“Then it is my turn to remind you of the law.”

“
Then it is my turn to remind you
 … Are you proud of yourself, little fella? Do you realize you are keeping my son from me?”

“I am doing my job, sir.”

“Well I’m going to wait outside.”

“That’s nice.”

“For as long as it takes.”

“That’s nice.”

“He’ll come out, we’ll hug, it’ll be none of your business.”

“I look forward to that.”

So I waited. I went outside, got in my truck, and waited.

Five weeks. I never wanted to lose sight of that door to the Y. I got thirty-eight tickets for stopping there in my truck during rush hour. I couldn’t shit by the truck because this wasn’t Cooper’s neighborhood, so eating and your basic belly functions were the only things that kept me from that door.

I did visit Vinnie the pizza man one night, though, and that was my first breakthrough. Yeah, he’d seen him, he knew the kid I was talking about. But not for a long time—he hadn’t seen him for months, he said. He didn’t know where he was staying, he just served him pizza—pepperoni was his favorite, same as me.

A lot of young guys went in and out of that Y, all looking like the world’s rough paw was tossing them for a tumble too often. It was getting near winter and none of them had anything more than a jean jacket. That’s all right if you’re a construction worker because you’re busy, and tough as bad beef. I, for example, know how to relax my shoulders in the cold. That’s the way to stay warm. But all these little guys, they would come out of the Y and hunch up their shoulders as soon as the wind hit, shrugging like they were saying
I don’t know why
and couldn’t say it hard enough.

So I had an idea. I got out of my truck and went up to this little guy, and I said, “Relax your shoulders.”

“What?”

“Relax your shoulders.”

“Up yours.”

But my idea went beyond that. I just had to stop one of them long enough to ask him if he knew Jerry. The relax-your-shoulders
thing was stupid, sure, but I had to find a way to make them a bit grateful so they would tell me something in return.

Cigarettes were the obvious answer. (Everything is obvious now. Why did it take me five weeks to think of asking one of these guys if he knew Jerry? Nothing was obvious then.) I bought some cigarettes and waited for another little guy.

“You got a light?” I said.

“Yeah.”

He lit my cigarette, kind of cool.

“Thanks. Here, you want one?”

“Thanks.”

“Getting cold, eh?”

“Yeah.”

“I’m looking for a fella named Jerry McGuinty. You know him?”

“Yeah, I know Jerry.”

“Mohawk?”

“No, he grew that out.”

“Right.”

“Too expensive shaving that all the time.”

“Right.”

“More of a nothing now, you know.”

“Sure. Sure. Do you want the rest of this pack?”

“No thanks.”

“Sure?”

“You don’t want it? I’ll take it if you don’t want it.”

“Go for it.”

“OK.”

“Jerry live up there in the Y, shared room or anything?”

“He did, man. He did. He’s not there now.”

“Where is he?”

“Not sure. You his father?”

“Yes.”

“I
knew
it, man. Same voice.”

“Same, is it?”

“Yeah. Deep.”

“He’s got a deep voice now, does he?”

“Pretty deep.”

“I probably gave him that.”

“Guess so, man.”

“But do you know where he is, where he might be?”

“Honestly, man, I don’t know. That Jerry moves around a lot, doesn’t stay in one place long. That fuckin Y is getting expensive, man. I can’t stay there long. But it’s safe, see.”

“So where else does he sleep?”

“Everywhere.”

“On the street?”

“Sure.”

“Where?”

“You know.”

“Yeah?”

“Warmer places. It’s getting cold.”

“Come into my truck. It’s over there.”

“No, I don’t … I don’t do that, man.”

“Give me a break, buddy.”

“No, man. I’ve got to go.”

“Which warmer places? Where’s warmer?”

“I don’t know. Malls. Billings Bridge is good.”

“Billings Bridge mall?”

“Yeah. Good places to hide in there.”

“Wait. Wait. Look, here’s some money.”

“I told you I don’t do that.”

“Would you give me a fucking break? It’s not
for
anything. I just need … Here. Look.”

“That’s a fifty.”

“Take it.”

“You don’t want it? I’ll take it if you don’t want it.”

“I want my son, my friend.”

“Yeah.”

“Does he talk about me?”

“Sure.”

“Is he all right?”

“I don’t know. Sure. He doesn’t talk much.”

“Right.”

“Flying. Fuck it’s cold.”

“Relax your shoulders.”

“He talks about flying, being a pilot. And he talks about some girlfriend in Montreal he’s gonna visit sometime.”

“Oh yeah?”

“And he talks about you.”

“What does he say?”

“Says you build houses.”

“That’s right.”

“Development, all rich and shit.”

“That’s right.”

“And you were never around when his mum poured beer on him.”

S
OME OBSERVATIONS HE HAD
noted following discussions with various members of the National Research Council:

The general civic purposes were infinite: all forms of transport could be tested and improved. Every imaginable form of weather could be conjured and thrown at every conceivable substance. But what caught his eye first, you see, what leapt from the pages of the Dreambook long before these discussions with Paul, was a note next to the entry “Wind Tunnel”:
model of city to be built
.

A scale model of this entire city would be built and placed inside. That’s what the initial dreamer hoped, and now Simon was making it possible. High-rises, bridges, perhaps the testing center itself. Every new shape on land would be made proof against the unexpected, would stand or fall before it actually stood. Would age, show its faults, tell us where we went wrong before we actually do it.

Do you see, you builders, mothers, dreamers? It is a place where mind, hope, and fact cohabit. Where the city becomes imaginary and our imaginings are real.

I will send a wind of whips and fire across this city, or a breeze that licks your walls. And you will never know me.

I
GOT A BIRTHDAY
card from Jerry.

It depressed me more than anything I had known. To remember me but tell me nothing, like I wasn’t worth telling. It was the cruellest thing you did, my Jerry, and then you did it again at Christmas.

I was out there looking for him like he was the future, but the most he could do was remember me.

And look at how empty that house was. Listen to it chattering away with itself like I wasn’t even there, creaking, adjusting itself. We weren’t getting along, that house and I; it was proving a point by adjusting itself, like a woman stretching out in bed to kick her husband out. I stayed in the living room, worked there, ate there, slept there.

The living room was where it all happened: mission control, the war room, the Penta-Jerry’s-Gone, my friend. That’s where I planned my missions.