Another Bullshit Night in Suck City (19 page)

Each night, like another night in a long-running play, I wander the empty streets, check on every sprawled man until I find him, tension built into each blanket. Each man has a role—one will be the lunatic king, one will be the fool. One will offer dire warnings, one will plot against us, one will try to help. I am forced to play the son. Most nights our paths cross before dawn, but sometimes months will pass without contact. The stage is done up like the outdoor space of an anonymous American city—broken neon, billboards of happy products, vast, empty. The light is dim, but we can make out figures draped in blankets, on benches, in doorways, beneath bushes. Each night I wander among them, and some I speak with, and for some I leave food. Another blanket. A coat. Any one of them may or may not be my father. Though the audience expects the encounter, they’ve paid for the encounter, I may not find him. Weeks may pass without a climax. Maybe housed, maybe dead, maybe he has left the city, though that is unlikely. The action flags, the audience lulled by the dull repetition, the same faces, then a new face (
tonight the role of Suzy will be played by Lili Taylor
), which soon becomes once again the same face. The night my father does rise from beneath a blanket, what am I supposed to say?
Hard by here is a hovel
? or
Gracious, my lord, you cannot see your way?

Out since early February, now it’s nearly December, count the months off on your fingers. One freezing night in the past year my father’s left foot got frostbitten. In a letter to me he writes,
I am losing my left toes (due to not taking off my shoes at night)
. Piece by piece he’s leaving this world (
Accursed fornicator! How are your stumps?
), with no bomb coming to take him whole. I put this letter in the cardboard box with all the rest. Some months he sells blood to pay the rent on his storage unit (
miss one payment at the Happy Hound, your stuff’s in the dumpster
). When he tells me this I give him some money, whatever I have on me. Bench boy, box man, rat food, I want him to be a projection from the machine hidden inside my head, I want him to fall from the fifth-story window, I want to unplug the machine. Some nights I imagine running him over with the Van—
your father’s dead
, the phone will say,
we’re holding him in the morgue
. I’ve been there, seen the tiny freezer doors stacked to the ceiling, the gurneys draped with sheets, the toes tagged, just like the movies. Where will they hang the tag on my father? Months later I find him, limping.
The doctor wanted to amputate
, he says,
but I walked
.

Still outside, winter everywhere, snow falls (
Grain upon grain, one by one, and one day, suddenly, there’s a heap, a little heap, the impossible heap
), his toes now blackening in his sock.

For the days leading up to Christmas he works for the Salvation Army as a fake Santa—the belted suit, the faux trim, the ringlet beard. Stationed on a sidewalk before a black pot, he rings a bell. I first learn of this when he tells me, one morning at the shelter as I finish the graveyard shift on the Van. I run into him on his way to get into his suit. He even shows me a photograph, and I’ll be damned, there he is, one of the downtown Santas. A bell-ringer, my father. Later, walking, I realize I’d never noticed just how many Santas there are, I pass dozens of them, one on every corner, same black pot, same worn suit, but from now on I’ll never know if one is my father. The Santa Brigade of the Salvation Army, each face disguised—rosy-cheeked, rosy-eyed, rosy-nosed—each bleating out a bleary,
Ho-ho
. If I look too closely into any one of their faces an eye will wink, or blink, but this doesn’t mean it’s him. Maybe they all wink, crinkle their eyes,
Ho-ho
. One stands before a Dunkin’ Donuts, a pink-glazed monstrosity the size of a truck tire filling the window behind his head.

Daughter One
: Seven days a week this—

Santa One
: (
through bullhorn
) Snow on! I will endure, on such a night as this!

Daughter One
: (
annoyed
)—is the process.

Santa Two
: (
gestures to
SANTA ONE
) His wits begin t’ unsettle.

Santa Three
: Canst thou blame him?

Daughter One
: Monday. Day One—plain, the classic donut. God’s gift—flour, eggs, milk, butter—good, clean, all-natural ingredients.

Santa One
: (
bullhorn
) The ha-ha, the ho-ho.

Daughter Two
: (
ignores him
) Those that do not sell on Day One move into Day Two, where we glaze them. Honey-dipped, we call it, though we use no honey. The same donut as Day One, now transformed. Many people wait for Day Two, the shiny donut.

Santa Three
: (
grabs bullhorn, to
DAUGHTERS
) Is there a point to this?

Santa Four
: (
holds up donut
) Do you realize that the latest theory of the universe is that it’s shaped like a donut? Fucking amazing. (
He enters cell, curls up and snores loudly over the rest of the donut-process recitation
.)

Daughter Three
: Day Three we dust the remaining honey-dipped with confectioner’s sugar—it is now a sugar donut. The faux honey has begun to skin over, like a caramel apple—it has some bite now, the sugar floating upon the surface like pollen dusts a pond in spring.

Daughter One
: Day Four—

Santa Three
: (
bullhorn
) For the love of Christ can’t you move this along?

Daughter One
: Fell on a broken bottle and bled to death—his last words were about robbing a bank.

Santa Two
: The whole enterprise—the hoo-hoo, the ha-ha, the goo-goo, the ga-ga—my idea, my brainchild. Those other morons did what I told them. Dippy-do Doyle? Couldn’t find his way out of a paper bag. I made millions, kid, millions. Lived well, drank in Joe Kennedy’s hangout in Palm Beach. I walk in, bartender throws me a Johnnie Walker Black, asks, What’re you writing these days? Mostly checks, I tell him, ha ha.

Daughter Two
: Froze to death, couldn’t pry the bell from his hand.

Santa One
: I was a goner from the first moment, the first check. Doyle set me up. He knew about you kids, knew where you lived, threatened to kill both you and Taddy-tu-tu if I didn’t keep going along with it. Said he’d kidnap you, for chrissakes, what was I supposed to do? I only got a few thousand out of the whole gig, nothing, really.

Santa Three
: (
sits up suddenly, speaks to
SANTA ONE
) Now, wait a minute, dryballs. There I was, in front of the Great God Giggles Garrity, the greatest judge in the U.S. judicial system…. (
to
DAUGHTERS
) Write it down, dryballs, it’s classic.

Santa Three
: He never smiled until the day he sentenced me. (
bullhorn to
DAUGHTERS
) Turn the page, dryballs, you need a new page.

Santa Three
: Six U.S. marshals brought me in, in shackles, penis included. (
DAUGHTERS
,
confused, mouth the word “penis”
) A two-million-dollar case. I was arrested going into the Breakers with a beautiful broad. (
through bullhorn to
DAUGHTERS
) Hey, numbnuts, you don’t write fast enough, you’re all losing your brains. I was in love with the broad, said I’d be right back, after I spoke with the police. Dumb bunny’s probably still waiting for me, ha ha.

Santa Four
: Any donuts left?

Daughter Two
: We drove at night, the city locked, subdued, steam breathing from the sewers, steam from the sides of buildings. The steam drew him to it, a cipher until he spoke, a shape, the shape of a man asleep. I am here to check his breathing, to watch the blanket rise and fall.

Santa Four
: (
through bullhorn
) When the mind’s free the body’s delicate.

Daughter Three
: The wind means something here, the snow means something. Footprints in the snow mean something. No footprints lead to this man. The snow began falling at midnight. He lay down before then. This means something.

Santa Three
: Buried most of it below a tree—I’m not telling you where, you bastard—but know it’s waiting, waiting for the dust to settle.

Daughter One
: The engine running, hot air blowing on my legs. Art cold? Thou art the thing itself, methinks. Inhale, exhale, the body’s steam, the engine inside, the soul manifest, the dream’s white cloud. I am cold myself.

Daughter Two
: For a few months after I got back from Mexico I seriously considered buying him a one-way ticket to Mexico City. Get him drunk one night and pour him into a bus while he’s passed out.

Santa One
: (
morose
) If there was any way I could snap my fingers and bring your mother back into this room….

Daughter One
: (
touching
SANTA TWO
) We got a live one here, I tell Jeff, as if it’s the first. I reach out and touch the shoulder, only after having whispered near, Hey, you need anything—