The Merchants of Zion (20 page)

I turned and Ruth halted her charge, waving her slender arm accusingly in my face. We screamed at each other, long-forgotten injustices bubbling to the surface.

“...You send the worst signals—I don't know, be nicer?—You call 
that
 vulnerable?-”

“...Because you never asked—There's no way you're that dense—Should I write it on my forehead?”

“...I'm not a toy in your toy chest—That's ridiculous—You're right, 
you're
 the victim.”

“...I 
always
 call you—You can't even—You forgot my birthday!-”

“...You 
can't
 be blaming me for—Who the hell told you that?—Of course it's not true—”

“...You didn't even show up—I waited for an hour—You 
must
 be joking—”

When Paul tried to get between us, perhaps hoping to recover his once certain lay, Ruth told him to go away. She didn't need some macho man eager to jump in and play cowboy. I derived no small amount of pleasure from thwarting his plans even if it meant once again torpedoing this friendship, so newly mended. Ruth said something stupid about ignoring her in favor of every new girl and I suppressed the urge to hit her. She had no such compunction, however, and slapped me when I called her a grubby social climber and told her our problem was that I was neither rich nor powerful nor famous.

“Don't you dare lay this shit at my feet,” she said. My right cheek tingled. The pain, a dim outline through an alcohol haze, sharpened my focus, and the rage tinging my vision receded. Ruth snapped out of it too, and we looked at each other like two strangers who, meeting randomly at a party, later discover they live in neighboring apartments.

The bartender informed us it was time to leave. He escorted us out, and Ruth linked arms with me as we descended the treacherous staircase.

Outside, I rolled a cigarette.

“Give me one,” Ruth said.

“You don't smoke.”

“I don't care. I want one.” I rolled her one and cupped the lighter as she leaned her face in. She inhaled and coughed. The second time was better—she blew out a small jet of smoke. “I'm still pissed at you. You're on probation.”

“As long as you're done beating me.”

She smiled then caressed my face, looking concerned. I went for the lips, but she screamed “You're bleeding!” and dug through her purse for a tissue. I touched my cheek and felt the blood—warm and sticky. Ruth found her tissues and pressed one against the wound. “Hold it,” she said. “I must have cut you with my ring. God Cliff, I'm sorry.”

“No worries. I'm starving. Can we get something to eat?” The Cock-a-Doodle Chicken was closing, but Ruth convinced the kid washing the floors to let us in. We threw away our cigarettes and asked for whatever they had left: a six piece bucket of chicken with two biscuits and two cups of coleslaw. We flipped two chairs off the top of a table and ate, ripping through the chicken and stacking the bones in a pile, a Leopold Heights massacre. Ruth peeled off the skin before eating the meat. She was on a diet.

“You know, this neighborhood doesn't seem too dangerous,” I said through a mouthful of biscuit. “All of the violence I've seen has come from you.” I tore the tissue from my cheek. It was the caked-mud color of dried blood.

“Very funny. I think everyone would agree you were asking for it.” She added a drumstick to the death pit, no longer hiding behind a mask of femininity.

“That's like the catch-phrase for whatever happens to white people in Leopold Heights.”

“You think you're so much smarter than everybody. Why don't you get a real job and prove it?”

“I'm going to wait 'til you hit it big with Pterodactyls and Talking Heads. Then I'll propose.”

“And if that never happens?”

“Unlike James, I'm risk averse. I've got a few prospects lined up. I think of it as a female mutual fund.”

“And you're going to end up just like every other investor—penniless and suicidal. Just don't jump out of 
my
 window.” We both laughed. Her head tilted upward, drawing my attention to a fine-linked gold chain looped around her neck before tapering off and vanishing into her shirt.

“Is there something at the end of your necklace?”

“This?” She fished it out. A gold medallion was attached to the chain. Ruth showed it to me, holding it between her thumb and forefinger. A man's face was engraved on it. “It's St. Christopher, the patron saint of travelers. My mom gave it to me to keep me safe.”

She brought it to her mouth and bit down gently, grinning. “Where were you staring that you'd notice it?”

Blood rushed to my cheeks, though I imagined they were plenty rosy already. “I didn't know you were Catholic,” I said, feeling bashful.

“You're no fun,” she pouted. She dropped the necklace and it rested on the outside of her shirt.

When we finished eating we thanked the kid and the rest of the staff, who had finished closing up and were standing behind the counter, waiting for us to leave.

Ruth tried calling her car. “Shit,” she said. “My boss needed it. For an emergency.”

“You could call one? One driven by a human being,” I said. “Like a normal person.”

“You think they come out here? Yeah right. Can I crash at your place?”

“Sure. James is gone. You can sleep on the couch.”

We waited on the Green Line's elevated platform. A trio of guys who looked like they'd been at the show lounged at the other end, smoking cigarettes and eyeing Ruth. I moved to block their view. Between our parties lay a homeless man, wrapped in a sleeping bag and dozing beneath a bench.

“Look,” I said, pointing at him.

“Should we report him?” Ruth asked.

“Let him enjoy his freedom,” I said. “I'm sure he'll get scooped soon enough.”

Ten story buildings lined the opposite side of the track. Every window was broken. Some were boarded. “This place is so decrepit,” I said.

“It's really sad. I can't believe how empty it feels,” Ruth said.

“Yeah. It's like people have just picked up and left.”

The train arrived, clattering along the track and screeching to its thirty-second halt. We were alone in the car. Ruth rested her head against my shoulder and nodded off.

Some time later the train stopped. A human voice broke out over the intercom, “Ladiesandgentlemenwehave
static
swhilewe
static
bepatient.” The train car's lights shut off one by one and when they came back on several seconds later I had both hands on Ruth's waist and she was in my lap. She straddled me, her bare knees planted on the hard plastic of the subway seat. Years of resentment burst forth over the invisible walls built between two conscious minds. I pressed my lips against her neck, tasting the dried sweat. Ruth pressed both palms against my cheeks and her mouth found mine.

Our emotions were raw and in sync, battling for dominance as my soul ached, threatening to snap like the mast of a storm-tossed ship. Her teeth sank into my lower lip. I felt the pin-point of pain, miles away. We were not each other's stars, but a tempest of unadulterated fury and hate. Time was too short and the future too uncertain to muss about with the pervading glow of love.

The metal buttons on her shorts were cold and slippery and hard for me to grasp with my drunk, sweaty hands. After a moment of fumbling, I managed to wedge one thumb under the first button and push it up through the loop. Her underwear was black and glossy. She pushed her hands under my shirt, digging her fingernails into my back.

I unbuttoned my own pants and slid them past my knees. Ruth lifted one knee and then the other as I pulled her shorts past each awkward crook. They got stuck on her ankles, and as she reached back to remove them the train lurched, flinging her to the floor. When she tried to stand her shorts tangled her up and she fell back down. I hooked one of her arms with mine to help steady her, and she clambered next to me. Her face shone with perspiration and she was inhaling deeply. She pulled up her shorts and I followed suit.

“Say, when we get back—” I began.

“I think I'm going to throw up.”

“Come on. It wasn't that bad.”

“Just. Be quiet. Please.” She leaned her head to the edge of the bench and gagged. The second time she puked. I could see chunks of barely-digested chicken in the puddle.

“It... it was too much,” she said. “The booze, the chicken, the—you.” She took a tissue from her purse and wiped her mouth. Then she slumped back, her head hanging down between her shoulders. Her face had taken on a defeated, ashen hue. She muttered, “I hate... I hate... I hate...” over and over again, clutching her knees and rocking back and forth. The night had battered down the doors of one hidden psychic room after the other, revealing a tender Ruth, stripped of her characteristic hauteur.

The omnipresent toneless, feminine voice droned over the speakers. “Ladies and Gentleman, please report any suspicious activity or unattended baggage to the train's operator. Liberty Transportation relies on you to help keep our city safe.”

I tapped my cheek where she cut me and asked, smiling, “So who got it worse tonight, you or me?”

Her face tightened, but no smile appeared. “You're lip's bleeding.” She took out another tissue and dabbed it on my lip. There were tears in her eyes and streaks of eyeliner down her cheeks.

“You're very physical tonight,” I said.

“Ha. Ha. Ha. I feel better now, thanks for asking.” She was retreating, and I regretted the joke. We spend so much time hinting and inferring at what's underneath that we don't realize the delicacy needed for emotions exposed like bone.

“What was it you were saying you hated?”

A dusky shroud fell over her face, earnest and reserved. “Why don't you ever break down? I remember that even when your mother...” she didn't finish, letting the thought linger in the air.

I knew Ruth was emotionally detached, but had never thought to level the same criticism at myself. When my mother died I'd cried, but not in front of anyone—not my sister or father, and definitely not Ruth.

“You know, the ladies like it when a man is vulnerable.” Ruth goaded.

“Well, first of all, I think 'the ladies' are in general more complicated and interesting than the men, so they have a greater proclivity for outbursts. But even if I don't wear my feelings on my sleeves, that doesn't mean I don't have them.”

“Well first of all,” Ruth said aggressively, “don't hide behind your thoughtful sounding bullshit. I've seen loads of guys cry. They cry more than we do, but not in front of each other because their tough guy posturing won't let them. And I wasn't accusing you of not having feelings.”

“I cried by myself when my mother passed away.”

“I don't care about that. The whole point is that everything overwhelm you so much that you can't control it! Also, only crying when you're alone is pretty pathetic.”

“What are you, my conscience?”

“Ugh.” Ruth was now sitting with her feet on the seat, shoes discarded on the floor. She leaned against the rail and dug her toes into my thighs. “Your emotions are like cockroaches. When you shine a light on them they run away and hide. Know what? Forget I asked.”

“Wait. Do you remember when you called me on Valentine's Day?” She nodded. “You'd gotten off work early, and called to see what I was doing. I could tell you wanted me to invite you out—I wanted to, but I didn't.”

“Why would I have wanted you to invite me out?”

“Whatever. I was too proud. I felt like you would be winning if I did. Because you got me to act the way you wanted. Breaking down is like that—whoever sees me cry wins. And I hate losing,” I finished.

“No one spends that much time thinking about you. You're delusional,” she said, her previously stony tone undercut by a note of teasing.

“Yeah, but you already knew that.” She finally smiled, and I laughed. “Are you going to throw up again?”

She gave me a dirty look. I guffawed, then took her hand. We moved to another seat—criminals fleeing the scene.

The train went underground and became a subway, the empty buildings and scattered lights replaced with darkness punctuated by the glow of maintenance lamps. When we came to our stop I helped Ruth out of the station. She was unsteady and stumbled as we went up the steps. Once outside she threw up into a trash can, then collapsed to her knees.

“I thought you were feeling better,” I said.

“I was,” she groaned. “I don't even feel drunk.”

“What were you drinking tonight?”

“Vodka.”

“You should stick to beer. I persuaded her to ride piggyback, holding her legs as she wrapped her hands around my neck. I could feel her chin resting on my clavicle and her sharp, shallow breaths whistled in my ear.

“You're usually good about not getting sick. I don't know if I've seen you this bad since we were freshmen.” Ruth didn't respond—she'd fallen asleep. When we reached my house I woke her up and forced her to drink about a gallon of water. The first glass ended up in the toilet, but the second stayed down. I took her upstairs and laid her in my bed. I asked if she was up for anything else, and she responded with a soft snore. Slightly disappointed, I turned off the lights and slid in beside her.

She looked like death the next morning, and either didn't remember what had happened after the show or she pretended not to. Her memory conveniently faltered right before our screaming match.

On the way out she thanked me for taking care of her last night. She kissed me goodbye, full-bodied and on the lips, leaving me in the doorway and with even less understanding of her motivations and intentions than before.

Leopold Heights Really Really Free Market and Gardening Extravaganza

Join Megan and Erin the first Sunday of every month to reclaim public space for public use and to practice mutual aid and solidarity! Participate in tending Leopold Heights's largest urban garden! Get stuff that you need from the really really free market! Participate in a late night drum circle beneath the beauty of the full moon!

Self-sufficiency and community interdependence are key to liberating oneself from brutal capitalist exploitation. Everyone can contribute as much or as little as they're able, and are also welcome take as much food as they think they're family can eat. Get there at seven to pull weeds and join us in the afternoon for a public barbecue where we'll grill up some delicious, garden-grown veggies for all of us to share.