South Street (38 page)

“Maybe you better sleep in ma room, then.”

“Now what the hell kinda talk is that? You think I’ma get outa ma own damn bed just on account a some horny bitch? She can’t keep quiet an’ let me sleep, she can damn well sleep someplace else.” He sniffed, took a deep breath, and went staggering toward the doorway, banging into chairs and tables as he went. Cotton rose and moved easily to the bar, went behind it, got himself a beer, and opened it. He listened as Leroy’s fumbling footsteps faded on the stairs, then sounded on the floor above. Cotton moved out into the Elysium’s lobby, still listening. He heard the two thuds and clank as Leroy’s shoes and belt buckle hit the floor. He heard the creak of bedsprings, dull murmurings of voices. Suddenly there was a yowl, as if someone had stepped on a cat, followed by a boom as something heavy hit the floor. Grinning, Cotton finished his beer, belched, and began to mount the stairs.

Jake hurried across the South Street Bridge, his baggy pockets ajangle with the loose change he had earned panhandling outside Thirtieth Street Station. Jake preferred to earn his money shining shoes, but it had been an exceptionally bad day and the only remedy for his personal liquidity crisis had been a vast infusion of nickels and dimes and, occasionally, quarters, extracted from the somewhat guilty-looking commuters rushing to catch the Paoli Local. Panhandling hurt Jake’s pride, his feet and, lately, his belly, but it was better to make small sacrifices than to go without wine, or to tap the emergency reserve bottle he kept hidden deep in a dark cranny of his favorite alley. With Jake it was a point of pride that he had always kept something put aside for a rainy day; it assured him that he was a cut above the average wino, who, Jake believed, never was successful because he never looked far enough ahead.

But as Jake hurried across the bridge he cursed himself for lacking foresight in another area; it had been a long day, and there was a frightening chance that he would not reach Lightnin’ Ed’s before closing time. He was so occupied with thinking about his destination that he failed to pay sufficient attention to where he was going; he stumbled over something and sprawled full length on the concrete. Hands reached down and helped him up. “Why don’t you watch where the hell you goin’?” Jake snapped, peering at the man in front of him. It was too dark to see much.

“
You
were going. I was just sitting here.”

Jake recognized the accent. “What you doin’ here, Brown?”

“Settin’,” Brown said.

“Humph,” Jake said, and started to move on. Then he stopped. His nose twitched like a rabbit’s. “You been drinkin’ a little beer, huh?”

“No,” Brown said. “I have been drinkin’ a whole hell of a lot of beer. I have already drunk almost two six-packs.”

“Uh huh,” Jake said encouragingly.

“I might just drink a couple more ’fore I gets through.”

“Uh huh,” Jake said skeptically. “You best hurry on then, or all the bars be closed.”

“I ain’t sweatin’ none,” Brown said. “I always come prepared. Cuts down on unwanted pregnancy.”

Jake peered at him. “Beer?”

“That’s right,” Brown said.

“You got this beer up here?” Jake said.

“What you think, I goes someplace else to drink it? Course it’s here.”

“Uh huh,” Jake said.

“You wanna hear the poem I just wrote?” Brown asked.

“I don’t hear too good sometimes,” Jake said.

“You want a beer?” Brown said in a whisper.

“Don’t mind if I do,” Jake said.

“I’m glad you’re so fond of poetry,” Brown said.

“All right, I’ll listen to your goddamn pome.”

“I appreciate that,” Brown said. “Why don’t you have a beer?” He reached down and pulled up a frosty can, popped the top, and handed it over.

Jake lowered himself onto the concrete walkway with a contented sigh. He sipped the beer. “Hey, damn, this here’s still cold.”

“Naturally,” Brown said. “I don’t like warm beer. Nobody does except Englishmen, and they are clearly insane.”

“How you keep it cold?” Jake said, sipping with great interest.

“I drink it,” Brown said, “as rapidly as is humanly possible.” He pulled out a can, popped the top, and poured half the contents down his throat.

“You gonna get sick that way,” Jake said.

“Never,” Brown said. “Now, for the poem.” Grasping his beer firmly, he climbed up and perched on the bridge railing. Jake stared up at him, mildly amazed. “This poem,” Brown announced, “is called ‘To a Sin-City.’” Brown pumped his arm for balance. “Whoops.”

“After you kill your ass, can I keep the rest of the beer?” Jake asked.

“Only if you shut up an’ listen to ma damn poem. I set here half the fuckin’ night makin’ up the muthafucka.” Brown cleared his throat. “
In the sheer-walled canyons, beneath the glassy eyes of ten thousand windows, the City sings its lies. Hymns of patriotism, dirges of brotherly love, rounds of
—” Brown broke off. “Goddamn, I forgot it.” He lowered himself and straddled the rail.

“You sit like that an’ you subject to forget all about rememberin’,” Jake said, helping himself to another beer.

“Hell,” Brown said. “Well, anyway, here’s another one:
A single smokestack, choking out its black despair on the rising sun
.” Brown stopped, looked expectantly at Jake. “Well? What you think?”

“Not bad. What is it?”

“Japanese haiku,” Brown said.

“Imported, huh?” Jake said. “An’ here I thought it was Schmidt’s.”

Brown looked at him, shook his head, dropped back to the walkway. He gulped the rest of his beer and tossed the can out over the railing.

“You hadn’t oughta do that,” Jake said.

“That river’s so damn dirty already it don’t make no difference.”

“That’s what the last guy threw a beer can in said.”

Brown nodded. “You’re right.”

“At ma age,” Jake said, “y’ain’t got no time to waste bein’ wrong.”

“I read you, brother.”

Jake looked at him. “You sure do talk funny.”

Brown sighed, leaned back against the bridge railing, took out another can, opened it, and dropped the tab back into the bag, where it rattled against the full cans. “That’s a nice sound,” Jake said.

“I thought you didn’t hear good,” Brown snapped. “What you mean I talk funny?”

“Well, I don’t know,” Jake said. “Just sometimes you sound like everybody else, an’ sometimes you sound like you pass the time readin’ dictionaries.” Brown snorted. “An’ sometimes …” Jake stopped and looked at Brown.

“Sometimes what?”

“Nothin’.”

“What?”

“All right. Sometimes you sound like you was speakin’ Eyetalian or somethin’. You know, kinda like you was diggin’ around for the right word.” He looked at Brown anxiously. Brown nodded slowly. “It ain’ ’zactly like you was makin’ nothin’ up or nothin’,” Jake went on. “More like you was tryin’ to remember somethin’.”

Brown stared at him. “Where’d you come up with all this?”

Jake shrugged. “Only way you live to be ma age is by keepin’ your eyes wide open an’ both ears on the ground. I hear pretty good when I hear,” Jake said modestly. He placed his empty beer can on the sidewalk beside his first one. Brown hospitably extracted another can and popped the top. “Put the tab inside,” Jake said. “It improves the flavor.” Brown shrugged, complied, and handed the can over. “Thank you,” Jake said. He peered at the label. “Damn. It
is
Schmidt’s. Thought you said it was some kinda Japanese typhoon or somethin’?”

“That,” Brown said icily, “was the poem.”

“Oh,” Jake said. “’Scuse ma ass. I don’t know nothin’ ’bout pomes. Or Japanese, neither. Rayburn’s your man for that. Went there in the Koreen war. Said he drank socks an’ ate octopuses an’ fucked gushy girls.”

“Do tell,” Brown said shortly.

“I speaks a little French an’ some Spanish an’ a touch a Portuguese.”

“Uh huh,” Brown said.

“Bet you’re wonderin’ where I learned all that, ain’tcha?”

“Readin’ the State Store price list,” Brown said.

“Smart ass,” Jake said. “I speaks Latin, too.”

“Every damn nigger in the world speaks Latin,” Brown said.

“Ooyay antkay,” Jake said.

“Ukfay offnay,” Brown replied.

Jake grunted and reached for another beer. “You can’t do pomes worth shit,” Jake said.

Brown set his beer down and glared.

“Them pomes sounded like a damn white man. You wanna hear a pome, now I got a—”

“Yeah,” Brown said sarcastically, “let’s hear a poem from the wino.”

“Beero at the moment,” Jake said easily, “an’ you, youngblood, are miles ahead a me. I was young once too, you know.”

“So what?”

“They don’t call you a wino until you gets old an’ smells bad an’ sleeps in alleys. If you live in some room someplace, then you’re just a common drunk, an’ if you’re young an’ lives in an apartment, why then you’re a heavy drinker.” He paused and looked at Brown. Brown said nothing. “An’,” Jake went on, “if you’re white, you gets to be an alcoholic, an’ if you’re white an’ rich an’ you live in someplace like Bryn Mawr, then you ain’t an alcoholic, you’re a national problem.” Jake sucked on his beer. “Bein’ a wino ain’t easy, you know. You gots to give up a lot to be a wino.”

“Like what?” Brown said.

“Damn near everything, one time or another. You gots to work harder to be a wino than you does to be President. You got to give up—bein’ reglar. Can’t be worryin’ ’bout no clothes. Can’t be worryin’ ’bout no car. Can’t get uptight ’bout no house, or no job. Can’t be too worried ’bout food. An’ women—no women. I tell you, Brown, women’s been the downfall a many a good wino. That’s why it’s hard for a young man to make the grade. Young man like you, you give him a choice ’tween gettin’ drunk an’ gettin’ fucked, thirteen an’ a half times outa fourteen he gonna get laid. It’s a big temptation. But you take an old man like me, he don’t get too much pussy tossed at him to begin with, an’ when he does, ninety-two times outa a hundred an’ four he’d rather drink. Eleven times outa them other twelve it’s some fat old cunt been around so long it’s like a cross between a sewer pipe an’ a pickled egg, an’ that one last time that he does get interested an’ the woman’s still warm an’ got two legs an’ don’t look like a damn buffalo, he’s either gonna come in his pants or hang there like a dead squirrel.”

“Uh huh,” Brown said. “That the way it is with you?”

“Hell, no, you silly-ass muthafucka!” Jake roared. “I ain’t got no problems like that. I got women hangin’ over me all the damn time. I just ain’t after it no more. Women’s too damn much trouble. I’ll take me a bottle a red wine any time. It keeps you warmer, it don’t keep on after you if you don’t want no more, it don’t wake y’up in the middle a the goddamn night an’ it don’t never complain if you roll over an’ goes to sleep soon as you’re done with it.”

Brown laughed shortly and reached for another beer.

“Yessir, youngblood,” Jake said. “All the time folks be tellin’ you what’s good for you. Guvment says you can’t smoke without you catch cancer. Drinkin’ does somethin’ else to you, messes up your guts or somethin’. Shit. I tell you, youngblood, there’s more niggers died climbin’ onto some damn woman than ever died just sippin’ a little wine. An’ there’s ten times as many died chasin’ pussy as ever caught up to any. An’ if you don’t die chasin’ it an’ you don’t die fuckin’ it, then you get a goddamn ulcer worryin’ ’bout who been gettin’ into it when you ain’t around.”

“Don’t worry me,” Brown said.

“It will,” Jake said. “You keep on chasin’ pussy, specially the pussy you been chasin’, an’ it will.”

Brown looked at him. “What—”

“I know what I know. You keep on chasin’ pussy, an’ sooner or later you end up dead. You so hot on poetry, I’ma give you a pome.”

“All right,” Brown said.

“First give me a beer.” Brown handed it over. Jake cleared his throat. “You think I oughta stand up?”

“Why sure,” Brown said. “You can’t lay down heavy shit while you sittin’ on your ass.”

“Mostly I do lay down shit while I’m settin’ on ma ass. But I guess this here’s different.”

“Definitely,” Brown confirmed.

Jake nodded, rose carefully, pausing to rub his stomach. He swayed in the nonexistent breeze. “Damn, I’ma fall in the river.” He took a swallow of beer. “You ready?”

“Lemme get another beer here.”

“I’m the poet now, dammit,” Jake snapped.

“All right, sorry,” Brown said. He set his empty can down and rooted around in the bag.

“Ain’t all gone, is it?” Jake said anxiously.

“Unh, unh,” Brown said. “Can’t be.” He pulled out a full can, began to put the lined-up empties into the bag.

“Hell,” Jake said impatiently. He staggered over and place-kicked the empties into the river. He spun around and glared at Brown. “You don’t know shit about pomes, you know that? Why hell, that piss you was squirtin’ a while ago didn’t even half rhyme.”

“Wasn’t sposed to,” Brown said.

“Well what damn kind a pome don’t rhyme?” Jake demanded. “Now here’s a pome for you. It rhymes. An’ it’s got, what you call it? A message. Yeah. See, too much pussy-chasin’ turns a man into a fool. It turns his brain to oatmeal an’ it makes him tend to drool, ’cause his mouth is gettin’ mushy. An’ he has a runny stool. An’ he pisses out his money while he wears away his tool. See, when a nigger wants some nooky he’s got to go through shit. Gots to give up all his gamblin’ for a little squeeze a tit. He’s gotta quit his cussin’ just to pat a little ass, an’ to get down to real fuckin’ he puts water in his glass. But he goes ahead an’ does it, ’cause he’s hungry for a feast. He opens up his zipper an’ he limbers up his piece an’ he gets into that pussy, yeah, he proceeds to bang away. His joint is full a juju an’ his ass is full a play an’ he’s snortin’ an’ he’s gruntin’ like a constipated hog while the stupid bitch is layin’ there just like a half-dead log. Well he can bang away till midnight, fuck on to the risin’ sun, but when he’s damn near killed hisself she say, ‘Baby? Are you done?’ Oh he jumped on like a fuckin’ lion, but he crawls off like a lamb, an’ deep inside his gut he knows it wasn’t worth a damn. Bet you thought I didn’t know no pomes. Gimme a beer.” Jake took a final swallow and tossed his can away with a Byronic flourish.