South Street (22 page)

“Not no more. Useta.”

“Doing what?” she demanded.

Rayburn turned and stared at her. She blushed. “I was with the de-fense department. You got any matches?” He reached into his pocket and pulled out a crumpled cigarette.

The girl reached below the counter and pulled up a packet of matches. Rayburn leaned back. She held the matches out in a slightly trembling hand. Rayburn closed his eyes. Fumbling, she pulled out a match, struck it, and held the flame to his cigarette. Rayburn took the first drag, held the smoke in for a minute, then let it stream out his mouth and nose, acting as if someone always lit his cigarettes for him. The girl laid the matches down, leaned forward, and propped her minuscule chin on her hands. “What’s it like in Japan?”

“Not bad,” said Rayburn. He took another drag on his cigarette. “You know, baby, like mountains an’ rivers an’ trees an’ a couple waterfalls an’ the same damn shitty cities an’ dirty air. Ain’t no big thing.”

“But it
has
to be!” she exclaimed. “It’s Japan.”

Rayburn looked at her. She was an incredibly homely girl—not ugly, just terribly plain and slightly overweight. “Japan’s just like anyplace else,” he said.

“Oh,” said the girl. Her fingers toyed with the book of matches. Suddenly she looked up. “If you’ve been to Japan, how come you’ve never been to Canada?”

“They didn’t send me to Canada,” Rayburn said. He waved his cigarette around, searching for an ash tray.

“Oh,” she said. She turned and bent over, showing a pastel flash of panties, found an ash tray, and placed it on the counter.

Rayburn trimmed his cigarette. “Don’t matter anyways,” he said. “Canada ain’t gonna be no different neither.”

“Don’t you want to go any more?”

“Nah. What for? So they speaks French. Big deal.” He straightened up and stubbed out his half-finished cigarette. “It’s the same everywhere.”

“I just can’t believe that,” she said. Her gray eyes looked out the window at the passing traffic. “I just can’t believe that. There’s got to be more than that to Japan, more than just trees and mountains and rivers. …” Her voice trailed off. Rayburn looked down at her pinched, chinless face, which rested on her plump, pale hands. “Was it
really
just the same as here?” she said pleadingly, raising her face, searching his eyes with hers. Rayburn felt anger and hatred rising within him. He wanted to kill her. He opened his mouth, closed it, opened it again.

“Nah, honey,” he said, “I was kiddin’. Japan was real cool. All them folks was runnin’ around in funny clothes, all them gals was all painted up an’ walkin’ around like their feet was tied together. It was somethin’ else.”

“What color was it?” she demanded excitedly.

“Color?” said Rayburn. “What you mean, color?”

“You know. Countries have colors, like Ireland is green and Holland is yellow and Greece is golden brown … oh, maybe it’s silly, and I’ve never been there, I just sell the tickets, but it seems like places have to be colored something.”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah,” said Rayburn. “Well, I’ll tell you. It was all different colors. Lots of blue an’ lots of orange, but all kinds a colors.”

“Oh I
knew
it,” she said happily.

“Yeah,” said Rayburn, smiling too. Then he caught himself, pulled his beret down, made his features stern. “Well, I done wasted enough time around here.” He stepped to the door, opened it, paused to look back at her. Her eyes were staring at a poster on the wall that said
JAPAN
in blue block letters beneath an orange pagoda. The tinkling of the bell brought her attention back to Rayburn.

“Oh. Are you sure you don’t want to go to Canada?”

Rayburn smiled at her. “Yeah,” he said, “yeah, I’m sure.” He gave her a dirty leer, and she smiled back at him. He stepped out onto Chestnut Street just as a bus went by, blasting the sidewalk with black diesel exhaust. “Blue and orange,” Rayburn mumbled to himself as he turned toward South Street. “Blue and orange. Shit.” But as he walked he smiled and whistled tunelessly.

Jake leaned against a crumbling wall, staring through the heavy screening and soot-smeared plate glass at the rows of bottles on display in the State Store. The pain in his stomach gnawed at him. Jake sucked in a few wincing breaths, his eyes never leaving the bottles. The pain gradually subsided to a dull ache. He rubbed his belly with one hand while the other searched through the pockets of his pants, shirt, coat, and sweater in search of some money. The search proved fruitless as it had several times in the two hours Jake had been standing there.

The cars and trucks trickling off the Expressway onto South Street cast fleeting glints and shadows across Jake’s form, the sun, reflected from windshields glinting at him like a winking eye. Occasionally a patron went past Jake and entered the store, and Jake’s eyes would hungrily watch the shadows moving inside until the customer emerged carrying a brown paper bag. Somewhere a siren wailed, and Jake automatically turned his head away from the store window. The source of the siren was invisible, but Jake caught sight of a gangling figure moving down the other side of the street. Jake pushed himself away from the wall and shuffled out to the curb. Traffic prevented him from crossing immediately, so he turned and shambled along, keeping an eye on the far sidewalk. When there was a break in traffic Jake crossed and pursued his quarry, gaining slowly but steadily.

The tug on his sleeve caused Brother Fletcher to stop and turn, and the sight of Jake’s stubble-encrusted face made him take a step backward. “Reverend?” Jake said.

“Yes,” said Brother Fletcher, his hand beginning the inevitable journey toward his pocket. Brother Fletcher’s wife maintained that he was the softest touch on South Street, and he was. He gave money that he didn’t have to almost anybody who asked, drawing the line only at the gang of heroin-addicted devil-worshipers who hung around the occult-supplies store on Twelfth Street, and feeling guilty about that. Jake was so obviously a charity case that he didn’t even need to ask. Brother Fletcher pulled out some change and extended his hand. Jake looked down at the coins.

“What’s that for?” Jake said.

“Why, wine,” said Brother Fletcher.

“I don’t take no handouts,” Jake snapped.

“What?” said Brother Fletcher. Jake looked at him scornfully. Brother Fletcher put his hand back in his pocket. “Then what—”

“I wanted to thank you for puttin’ me up the other night.”

“What are you talking about?” said Brother Fletcher.

“Ain’t you the preacher up there to The Word a Life?”

“Well, one of them, yes.”

“Well, all right then. You let me sleep in there the other night when I wasn’t feelin’ too good.”

“Oh,” said Brother Fletcher, “yes. Now I remember.”

“Yeah, well I just wanted to say thanks.”

“Well,” said Brother Fletcher a trifle uncomfortably, “you’re quite welcome. But it isn’t necessary to thank me.”

“Why not?” Jake demanded.

“Why, well, because any servant of God would have done the same.”

“So? An’ I wouldn’t be too sure a that. How ’bout that muthafucka—oops, ’scuse ma French, how ’bout that Sloan?”

“Uh, yes, I’m sure Reverend Sloan would—”

“C’mon now,” Jake said.

Brother Fletcher grinned sheepishly.

“That’s better,” Jake said approvingly. “Y’know, for a preacher you’re damn near human.”

Brother Fletcher felt his neck grow warm with a flush of pleasure, a reaction that he found embarrassing. “Thank you,” he mumbled.

“Say what?” Jake said.

“I said, ‘Thank you.’”

“Oh. I’m gettin’ so I don’t hear too good all the time. I guess I’m gettin’ a little old.”

Brother Fletcher regarded Jake’s dilapidated features. “No,” he said, “I don’t think it could be that. You don’t look that old.”

“Well I ain’t
that
old,” Jake snapped. “All the same, I’m gettin’ on up there. I don’t move as fast as I used to, an’ ma stomach’s no damn good no more. Hurts all the damn time.”

“Have you seen a doctor?” Brother Fletcher asked.

“What for? There ain’t but one cure for old age, an’ I ain’t ready for dyin’ yet.”

“No, no, of course not.”

“I got a lot a good years left.”

“I can see that,” said Brother Fletcher.

They stood facing each other in a slightly uncomfortable silence. “You know,” Jake said finally, “I generally get along pretty good with you fellas. Onliest thing wrong with you is all that religion makes your brains a little soft.”

Brother Fletcher opened his mouth and closed it again with a sharp clacking sound.

“Whad you say?”

“Nothing,” said Brother Fletcher, “nothing at all.”

“You know,” Jake said, “I don’t even mind talkin’ to you. Some a you fellas don’t know how to keep their traps shut. They’re all the time preachin’ some shit, uh, ’scuse ma French, an’ tryin’ to make folks feel ’shamed a theyselves for tryin’ to have a good time an’ get along in the world. But you ain’t said moren ten words. You must be the shortest-winded preacher this side a Hell.”

“Thank you,” said Brother Fletcher, “I think.”

“Tell you what. Seein’ as how you’re such a good fella, maybe we oughta have lunch together some time.” Jake peered at Brother Fletcher from beneath his grizzled brows.

Brother Fletcher pulled at his nose to conceal a smile. “Why that’s a fine idea. Are you free today?”

“I ain’t never free,” Jake said, “but I can be reasonable.”

Brother Fletcher laughed appreciatively. “Fine. Where—”

“Leo’s got the best sandwiches on the street,” Jake said quickly. “Only maybe you wouldn’t feel right goin’ there, seein’ as it’s a bar. You know what a bar is. Don’t you?”

“Oh yes,” said Brother Fletcher.

“Well don’t you be jumpin’ to no conclusions. I mean, all bars ain’t the same. Lightnin’ Ed’s ain’t like some places I could mention.”

“Did you say Lightnin’ Ed’s?”

“Yeah,” Jake said. “You been there?”

“No!” said Brother Fletcher. “But I’ve—heard about it.”

“Yeah?” Jake said. “I didn’t know you fellas kept up on that kind a thing.”

“It’s a minister’s responsibility to be aware of the pitfalls awaiting the unwary,” said Brother Fletcher loftily.

“Yeah, well,” Jake said. “I bet y’all have one hell of a good time checkin’ out them pitfalls. C’mon.” Jake started off down South Street, leaving Brother Fletcher standing on the sidewalk, gasping indignantly. After a minute he grinned ruefully and followed along.

Leo had just finished constructing another leakproof sandwich of radical design. He had used a hard roll carefully mashed down on the inside so that the crust formed a reservoir that Leo felt certain would sufficiently contain floods of mayonnaise, ketchup, and pickle juice. Leo had used an abundance of these materials, desiring to submit his theoretically perfect design to the most rigid of practical trials. With quivers of anticipation jiggling inside his belly Leo grasped the sandwich firmly in both hands, opened his mouth, inserted the sandwich, and was about to subject his construction to the pressure test when Jake came through the door followed by a tall bony man wearing a clerical collar. At the sight of the collar Leo’s hands went lax and the sandwich fell, smearing mayonnaise, ketchup, and pickle juice all over Leo’s white-aproned front. “Shit,” said Leo. “I mean, g-g-g-good afternoon, Reverend. Lord, I mean God, I mean, ah, what a mess.” Leo flapped his hands helplessly. The remains of the sandwich slipped from his apron onto the top of the bar. Leo grabbed for a damp side towel but couldn’t decide whether to clean himself or the bar with it. Finally he pulled off his apron and used it to wipe the bar. Jake sat on a stool, cackling at the performance, while Brother Fletcher stood, shifting his weight from one foot to the other, embarrassed by Leo’s embarrassment.

“Aw, take it easy, Leo,” Jake said. “He don’t bite.”

“He’s a preacher,” Leo said defensively. “You hadn’t oughta bring a preacher in here without warnin’ me.”

“This one’s okay. He don’t even give a damn if you says damn, long as you don’t put God in front of it. Right, Rev?”

“I ain’t never had no preacher in ma bar before,” Leo said.

“You prejudiced against preachers, Leo?” Jake asked innocently.

“Hell, no!” roared Leo. “I ain’t prejudiced against nobody. But shit—ah, ’scuse me, Reverend. I mean, I ain’t got nothin’ against preachers. …”

“Well then, what’s all the noise about?” Jake demanded.

“Well, what about ma other customers?”

“Please,” said Brother Fletcher, raising a hand. “I understand perfectly.” He moved toward the door.

“Wait a minute,” Leo said. “I wasn’t meanin’ for you to leave or nothin’.”

“I thought you were,” said Brother Fletcher, a bit stiffly.

“God, no. I mean, ’scuse me, no. It’s just—well, ah, don’t you guys wear undershirts or nothin’ under there?”

“You want me to remove my collar?”

“I’m sorry,” Leo said, “but this here’s a bar an’ if some a ma customers caught sight of a preacher’s collar, why, it’d be almost like seein’ a cop car parked outside.”

“No need to explain,” Brother Fletcher said briskly. He quickly removed his collar and shirt and stood in his undershirt. “How’s that?”

“Thanks, Rev,” Leo said. “Now you can have one on me. You do drink?” Leo peered at Brother Fletcher. Brother Fletcher felt his face grow warm. “’Scuse me, Rev,” Leo said slowly, “but ain’t I seen you in here before?”

Brother Fletcher swallowed. “I—”

“Nah,” said Leo. “Couldn’t be. Now I got Coke an’ stuff like that, if you don’t want a beer or nothin’.”

Brother Fletcher breathed a sigh of relief. “I guess one beer wouldn’t keep me out of heaven,” he said.

“Hell, no,” Jake said. “You know what they say. One drink an’ you might get in, two drinks an’ you gotta get in, three drinks an’ you can’t get up that high.” Jake laughed uproariously, Leo grinned, and Brother Fletcher gave a hearty, uncomprehending horselaugh.

“Yeah,” Leo said, “an’ four drinks an’ you can’t get out.” Jake and Leo smiled at each other.

Brother Fletcher was suddenly aware that something was expected of him. He felt horribly inadequate, but then inspiration struck him like a bolt of lightning. “Yes,” he said, “but no matter how many you have, once you’re in you never want to leave.” He laughed happily and raised his beer.