In the City of Shy Hunters (23 page)

For a moment, True Shot and I sat in Door of the Dead van. Shadows of sycamore and sunlight, like the bark of sycamores, camouflage spots, moving moving on the windshield, on the dash, on the plastic Virgin Mary, on the green-sequin-framed photo of Brigitte Bardot, on our legs and arms, on the seat, our crotches, on our hands, True Shot's silver rings; sycamore shadows and light on the surface of True Shot's mirrors, on the beaded blue horizontal and red vertical buckskin bag hanging on the buckskin necklace around his neck.

No Charlie 2Moons in the crowd of Polo Calvin Klein white people. No Ruby Prestigiacomo either.

Ruby was supposed to meet us on the steps.

On the wrought-iron fence was a sign that said
THEODORE ROOSEVELT PARK
. The trees on the other side of the fence were mostly sycamores and looked like some flowering trees too.

The Museum of Unnatural History, True Shot said.

The Museum of Unnatural History had big brown stones and turrets, an architectural style I didn't know. When I asked True Shot what style the building was, True Shot said, Neo-White Male.

At the corner of Central Park West was a guy selling hot dogs, Sabrett. I saw True Shot's face when he smelled the hot dogs, and I knew underneath True Shot's mirrors, his eyes were quivering like light through sycamores for a hot dog, so I stood in line, and when I got to the Sabrett guy I asked True Shot if he wanted one or two. True Shot said two and so I ordered four—sausages, not hot dogs; hot dogs were the skinny ones, sausages the fat ones that were spicy hot—with everything, mustard,
relish, sauerkraut, and onions, and a Seven-Up for me and a Perrier with lime for True Shot and a fistful of napkins.

We sat under the statue of Theodore Roosevelt, in the sun, on the steps of the Museum of Unnatural History, everybody in the world walking by.

Japanese tourists from a bus that said
BIG APPLE TOURS
kept themselves all herded together taking pictures of everything. One Japanese guy, in a green shirt with an alligator on it, really pressed slacks, perfectly shined shoes, and a floppy tourist hat, came over to True Shot and me and put his camera up to his eyeball and pointed his camera at us. True Shot gave the Japanese guy a big open-mouth smile with Sabrett sausage in his open mouth, and the Japanese guy just took the picture as if we were a statue of two guys eating Sabrett sausages.

When the Japanese guy walked away, all at once his camera fell onto the sidewalk, just like that, camera crash and camera parts all over on the sidewalk.

My big nose and mustache, my crooked bottom teeth on the surface of True Shot's mirrors.

My Japanese brother broke his camera! True Shot said.

I didn't say anything right off, just looked at myself trying to look through True Shot's mirrors underneath to his eyes.

It is this way, I said.

That made True Shot laugh.

I was finished with my two sausages in no time at all and I rolled a cigarette, lit it, and gulped the last of the Seven-Up. True Shot looked like he could eat two more, and I said to True Shot, I've got enough money for two more. But True Shot didn't say anything, just his mirrors and the sun in his mirrors.

No Ruby Prestigiacomo.

No Charlie.

Then: You're sitting under it, True Shot said.

Under what? I said.

True Shot had a sycamore branch in his hand with a bunch of leaves on it. One by one, True Shot broke the leaves off the branch and left the leaves in a pile on the hot cement. When the branch was just a skinny stick, True Shot pointed the stick.

Notice that the stallion is bridled, True Shot said, And Teddy has the reins. He's choking the stallion back so hard the stallion's mouth is open.

True Shot stood up, brushed his butt off, and flip-flopped around the front of the statue. I followed him around.

The sun in True Shot's mirrors looked like True Shot's eyes were two big suns staring at me.

True Shot pointed the stick.

Teddy's got a handgun in his holster, True Shot said. I wonder if he's got a permit? And what about that belt of bullets around his waist?

Just then a Japanese tourist took a photo of True Shot, pushing the stick against the thigh of the statue of the man walking next to Theodore Roosevelt.

This here's my African brother, True Shot said. Notice that he is naked except for a drape of cloth, and mark that his crotch is just over from Teddy's boot.

True Shot pointed the stick at the man's head.

Notice that my African brother's head is just high enough so Teddy can lean over and speak softly, or, if Teddy wants to, he can use his big stick.

True Shot flip-flopped around the back of the horse.

When we were back around the other side again, True Shot touched the stick to the thigh of the statue of the man walking next to Theodore Roosevelt on that side.

True Shot's mirrors, two bright suns.

This here's my Native American brother, True Shot said. Notice that he's naked except for a blanket and that his crotch is just over from Teddy's boot.

True Shot pointed the stick at the man's head.

Notice that my Native American brother's head is just high enough so Teddy can lean over and speak softly, or, if Teddy wants to, he can use his big stick.

That's when, in broad daylight, True Shot reached his hand up and took his mirrors off.

I always, when True Shot took off his mirrors, looked at True Shot in the eyes, to see those eyes, back and forth, back and forth, Saint Vitus' dance in his head, searching for the space in between.

True Shot squinted up at Theodore Roosevelt.

Look like anybody familiar? True Shot asked.

I put my hand above my eyes.

Perhaps you detect a certain resemblance to our nation's
current
leader? True Shot said.

Who, Reagan?

No, True Shot said. Nancy.

True Shot and I got to laughing then. True Shot was laughing so hard he sat down on his haunches, sitting in the way I never could for long. He was laughing and flipping the stick back and forth, back and forth.

He put his mirrors back on.

Belly jumping, shoulders rolling, I thought me and True Shot were in for a good laugh.

But it's not the truth.

Under True Shot's mirrors, tears coming down his cheeks, snot out his nose.

Then just like that, True Shot jumped up and went flip-flop up the steps and I was following.

What about Ruby? I said.

Ruby couldn't make it, True Shot said.

Charlie couldn't make it either.

True Shot and I walked into a big hall with dinosaurs, and I wanted to stop and look but True Shot knew where he was going, so I just kept up with him. On the left on the wall were all sorts of things Teddy had said about life, and I only had time to read the one that said
All daring and courage, all iron endurance of misfortune, make for a finer, nobler type of manhood
.

True Shot walked right by where you had to pay, and I walked by too, but the woman stopped me and I had to go back in line and pay a suggested donation of five dollars. So I paid five dollars and got the clip you clip on your shirt collar that I clipped on the bottom of my shorts.

True Shot was waiting in the Eastern Woodlands and Plains, standing next to an exhibit of a pack of wolves. Taxidermy wolves. Art wolves. I followed True Shot through the Eastern Woodlands and Plains, through the Asian Peoples, and at the end of Asian Peoples we turned left and True Shot flip-flopped up the stairs and I followed to the third floor to Asian Mammals, where there were two elephants, and then we walked through a bunch of mannequins my Art Family would love to know. A sign said
MECCA UPSTAIRS
, but we didn't go to Mecca. We went into Primates of the Eastern Woodlands and then, all at once, right there in front of us was the tipi.

But it's not the truth.

Ceci n'est pas un tipi
.

BEHIND THE THICK
glass was a tipi scene. Mannequins. Native American Art Family. Two women on the left and two men on the right. In
the middle was a phony fire. One man was standing, holding a pipe and a pipe bag. The women were sitting by a game of sticks on the floor and one woman was braiding the other's hair. The Native American Art Family all were wearing buckskin, beadwork on their buckskins. In the background were reed chairs on the ground you could lean back on.

Indian drum music from speakers.

On the left side of the glass were some words on a piece of paper. True Shot walked up and read the words out loud: In this scene an 1850s Blackfeet family relaxes in a tipi. The two women play a game of dice, a popular women's pastime. The man standing at the rear of the tipi wears an outfit of tanned deerskin decorated with porcupine quills, horsehair, beads, and white weasel tails. He holds a pipe with a wooden stem and a stone bowl and a beaded pipe bag. Smoking was an important part of ceremonies, but both men and women also smoked for pleasure.

True Shot had his head in his hands, in his hands his red bandanna. Just as I looked, True Shot's chest went up and down, up and down, and a big crying sob came out of him.

Then: a woman in a white blazer and skirt pulled her child away from the glass and said, Don't touch, honey. The little girl was wearing a sunbonnet and fluffy dress, and the little girl said, Where's their bathroom, Mommy?

True Shot's big tears were coming down under his mirrors, and pretty soon True Shot was sobbing way loud and his chin moved funny and he was weeping weeping and you could hear him all over inside the halls of the Museum of Unnatural History. The woman in a white blazer and skirt picked up her daughter and took long steps away—the daughter, under her sunbonnet, watching True Shot the whole time.

Why is the man crying, Mommy?

That kind of crying is like puking. Someone else doing it always makes you do it too. I put my arm around True Shot's extra-lovely shoulders and there we were, the two of us, crying our eyes out.

Then True Shot sniffed up and wiped under his mirrors with his fingers.

They're going to do this to the whole world before they're done, True Shot said. Make it into a picture and put it in a frame.

Then True Shot was off weeping again, his whole big extra-lovely belly bouncing and his chest up and down, up and down.

It is this way, True Shot said in between sobs, when he could. I came, I saw, I conquered, I put it in a museum, True Shot said.

Then True Shot made his extra-lovely hands into fists and said, Someday I'm walking in here, and when I walk out I'm walking out with that medicine bundle.

With what? I said.

With the medicine, True Shot said, pointing at the Native American Art Family guy holding the pipe and the pipe stone.

To my people, True Shot said, That pipe is their life, their medicine.

It is this way, True Shot said, raising his extra-lovely fists into the air. Someday I'm walking out of here with that pipe.

Ceci n'est pas une pipe
.

You're going this way and then shit happens and then you're going that way.

In all the world, this distracted globe, just then, right then, when I looked over at the Native American Art Family relaxing in their tipi—and I swear this is the truth—the guy in the tanned deerskin and beads and porcupine quills and white weasel tails, holding the pipe with a wooden stem and the stone bowl, smiled at me. Winked.

The sensation was a finger drawing a circle around my heart.

I went to tell True Shot an inanimate object had just smiled at me and winked, but True Shot was busy with something else.

True Shot said, Cover me.

I said, Cover you? Cover what?

It is this way, True Shot said. If you want something, you got to piss on it.

True Shot rolled his eyes up to heaven.

I'm marking this place, True Shot said.

He pulled down the elastic of his red cotton shorts and the elastic of his underwear and pulled out his extra-lovely anteater cock. In the middle of all the people walking by in the Museum of Unnatural History on a Sunday on the Upper West Side, True Shot pulled his cock out.

True Shot was standing right next to the door into the wall on the right side of the glass the Blackfeet Art Family were relaxing in, when he started peeing. I looked around. People everywhere. No Charlie 2Moons.

True Shot was peeing, really loud, walking along the glass, more like he was dancing, singing, not holding on to his cock, his arms out wide: True Shot singing, dancing, his cock and his pee all up and down, back and forth, on the glass and on the floor.

I put my arms out wide too. How else do you cover somebody?

True Shot was just about at the door into the wall on the left of the glass case the Blackfeet Art Family were relaxing in, when a guard, a white guy, came around the corner. I stepped up to the guard, right in his face, and said, Excuse me?

And the guy said, Yes?

Language my second language.

I said, Can you tell me, I said, Where the bathroom is?

And the white guard said, Down Primates, past North American Birds at the stairs.

I said, Thank you, and I was still standing right in front of this guard, so the guard went to step by and I stepped that way so he couldn't go, and he stepped the other way and I stepped that way too, and then the guard got this look on his face, so I stepped away and looked over to True Shot and True Shot was still peeing under where the words on the left are.

All at once I said right to the guard, clearly, not one stutter: All daring and courage, all iron endurance of misfortune, make for a finer, nobler type of manhood.

The white guard just looked at me, checked for my little clip, saw my little clip on the bottom of my shorts, and went to step around me.

Then:
C'est un penis
, I said.

Fuck you, the guard said. He stepped around me. I looked over to the Blackfeet Art Family relaxing at home. My eyes went right to the place on the words to the left where it said both men and women smoked for pleasure, and all at once, that's all I wanted to do, roll a cigarette and smoke it for pleasure. The place smelled like a toilet and True Shot was standing there all put back in; under his mirrors his eyes were smiling. True Shot nodded to the guard, and then when the guard turned the comer, True Shot had an extra-lovely smile for me.