In the City of Shy Hunters (24 page)

You want something, True Shot said, You got to piss on it.

A FEW WEEKS
later, I was lying on the futon in my shorts listening to Power 95 on the boom box and reading jokes in
The New Yorker
. The red-pink walls of my apartment, my Art Family, the E.T.-phone-home guy, the empty '53 DeSoto, the oscillating fan. The humid sooty air.

At four-thirty, I called Janet at Columbia University. The message machine again. I left the same message again:
Where is Charlie? Where is Sebastian Cooke? Please call me back
.

Mrs. Lupino's cats across the hall yelling and scratching—it all got to be too much, and when the phone rang and it was Ruby breathing
breathing in the phone again. I climbed the stairs to Rose's apartment door and knocked. Dogs barking but no Rose.

I sat on the stoop, rolled a cigarette.

Charlie 2Moons nowhere.

Garbage all over the sidewalk and under the stairs. The hot summer night made the garbage worse, the flies and the stink. People walking by on the sidewalk had to step around cardboard boxes, black plastic bags, holes in the bags, every kind of trash flowing out of the holes. Somebody'd thrown away a bunch of photographs, so all over the sidewalk and into the curb, little squares of smiling people holding beers looked up at me. Two garbage cans were turned over, one can in the street. Books, papers, old food, a brassiere, dog shit, beer bottles and cans, an empty bottle of Yukon Jack, a plastic gallon of Clorox. Blue and white paper coffee cups, a wadded-up slice of pepperoni pizza.

I started walking, just walking wherever my feet wanted me to walk. In St. Marks Books, I opened a big book by Robert Mapplethorpe that said
DISPLAY COPY
on it. One of the photographs was of a guy who looks like a Catholic saint, beatific smile, eyes rolled up to heaven.

The guy was jerking off.

Charlie 2Moons. I'd seen Charlie 2Moons look like that.

At Hebrew National I bought two hot dogs. They're the good kind of hot dogs, so I bought a third. I sat in the air-conditioned window and ate the hot dog, the paper napkin wadded up tight, red and yellow-orange in my left hand. People walking by on the street.

THAT EVENING WAS
probably the last twilight walk I ever walked when the monster and its heavy footfalls was still a secret deep inside Manhattan's heart. All around me, behind the million windows, in their apartments, young men stood in front of mirrors and looked into their eyes, trying to understand the strange new sense of everything falling away.

Bad diet, too much coffee, too many drugs last weekend.

Slow down, that's all.

My God, this rash. What's this in my throat?

It's only a cold, the flu. This bump, this purple bump. I've never had a bump on my body like this.

At the gym, the young men stood on the scales and moved the weight across the scale, and then stared at the seven pounds that used to be on their arms and chests and butts and legs.

Behind the million windows, sleepless, the heavy fall of the monster's footsteps shaking the glass of water on the nightstand, shaking the nightstand, shaking the whole building.

Only the week before, the
Post
reported that a couple on East 70th Street had thrown a big party—champagne and the works. After the party, when their friends were gone, the two young men joined hands, stepped to the window ledge, and jumped out of their penthouse apartment.

THE FOLLOWING WINTER
, one night after Cauchemar closed, it was just Daniel, the boss's brother, and John the Bartender and me sitting in the long angled shadows, the windows fogged, the doors locked. Big flakes of snow falling in the mercury-vapor light. Latin beauty Sade on the music system, “Smooth Operator.”

Slave interest.

Got a straw? Daniel yelled over to John.

Then: And John, Daniel yelled, On your way over here, bring me a fresh Hennessy—make that two.

Daniel tapped his gold American Express card against the butcher paper, ran his thumb and finger down the edge of the card, made a face that was like a smile, and then rubbed his thumb and finger on his gums above the capped teeth.

John set the two snifters of Hennessy down on the table, one by me, one by Daniel. Daniel said, straw? and John walked back to the bar, singing “Smooth Operator,” moving his body to “Smooth Operator,” a nice way with his shoulders and butt.

John was shiny bald on the top of his head, a fifty-dollar haircut on the sides, and in back a ponytail just to the collar. A barrel chest, big black mustache, those black garters on his arms over the white shirt, black bow tie.

John came back with a straw, cut in half, and laid the straw on the table on Daniel's side. John winked at me. The halogen light was right on John's bald head, and the moment when he winked at me around his head was illuminated.

You want some of this? Daniel said, and handed John the straw.

John sat down on the banquette too close next to Daniel. Daniel put his arm on John's back and John leaned the straw into the cocaine, pushed the straw into the line of white, put a finger to his nose, pushed the nostril closed, and sniffed up the line. John sat back up straight,
wiped his nostrils and his mustache, snorted, and cleared his throat, Daniel's arm draped over his shoulder.

Hell! Let's have a party! Daniel said. Just bring that Hennessy bottle over here!

When John got up to get the bottle, Daniel handed me the straw and started singing Bob Dylan,
Bring that bottle over here
, and I took it but Daniel kept holding on to it until he finished singing,
I'll be your baby tonight
.

I had to stand up to get to the line of cocaine on Daniel's side. Either that or I had to go sit next to Daniel the way John had, so I stood up and leaned over the table.

On the end of the white line on the white butcher paper, I put the straw. I cussed my hand for my mother's nerves, made a fist with my other hand behind me, released the fist, then quick switched the straw to my steadied hand, held the straw to my nose, my other hand's index finger against my nostril, and pushed the straw toward Daniel's third shirt button, inhaling the cocaine, then stood up straight and breathed in deep through my nose.

That one's yours too, Daniel said, and pointed at the table.

I changed nostrils, leaned down, pulled the cocaine in, tapped the straw onto the table.

Done this before, Spud? Daniel asked.

Daniel was smiling his restaurant smile.

Didn't know if you'd have blow in Idaho, Daniel said. He laughed, said: Didn't know. Blow. Idaho.

Daniel dumped the rest of the cocaine from the bottle onto the butcher paper and, with the straw, scraped out the cocaine that was stuck on the glass inside. Daniel looked up at me then and kept looking right at me as he leaned back against the banquette and pushed up so I could see the crotch of his suit pants, and he reached into the pocket of his pants and moved his hand around in there and pulled out a shiny square of red paper.

Daniel leaned his elbows onto the butcher paper, pushed his shirt buttons up against the table, unfolded the shiny red square slow, then held the red paper between his thumb and index and tapped the cocaine in the square onto a pile on the table next to the pile of cocaine from the bottle.

Daniel scraped the square of paper with his long pinkie fingernail, fanning the rest of his fingers out. His fingers were thick and there was black hair on the backs, black hair smashed down under his diamond ring, third finger, left hand.

Daniel made eight lines, longer than his gold American Express card and thicker this time.

Yes, I said, I have.

Really? Daniel said. Where'd you do cocaine?

Just about everywhere, I said. Jackson Hole, Boise, Missoula, Ketchum, Coeur d'Alene, Hope.

Hope? Daniel said.

He inhaled four lines, fast, nothing left of the lines, not one particle of cocaine, when Daniel was finished. Daniel held his nostrils for a moment with his thumb and finger, then handed me the straw.

That's a place? Daniel said. Hope? Hope, Montana?

Hope, Idaho, I said.

You lived there? Daniel said.

For a while, I said.

Then: Not in Hope, I said, just outside. Beyond Hope, we called it.

Daniel's smile was not his restaurant smile, not polite, not sophisticated, just a big smile on Daniel's face.

Hey, John! Daniel yelled over. Did you hear that? Spud here used to live in a place called Beyond Hope!

John called over: What do you hope for in Idaho?

I did two more lines, my hand steady, not shaking at all. John brought the Hennessy bottle over, and a snifter for himself, put the bottle on the table, and sat down on the banquette too close to Daniel. Daniel handed John the straw.

For cocaine, I said. You hope for cocaine.

I thought Daniel was having a heart attack, but he was laughing. John had to stop snorting the line of cocaine because he was laughing too. I was surprised I was so funny. But when I did the next two lines, my hand was totally steady, and Daniel and John were still laughing and I was laughing, and I knew why I was so funny and I was laughing.

Hope no more, Spud! Daniel finally was able to say. You've come to the right place, Daniel said. In New York you don't have to hope. There's nothing to hope for. It's all right here. Fuck hope, Daniel said. You never have to stop and hope, all you have to do is reach out and take what you want.

Fuck hope! John said, and raised his Hennessy snifter.

Daniel raised his snifter. Fuck hope! Daniel said.

I raised my Hennessy snifter.

Fuck hope! we all toasted.

* * *

FUCK HOPE AND
all the tiny little towns, one-horse towns, the one-stoplight towns, three-bars country-music jukebox-magic parquet-towns, pressure-cooker pot-roast frozen-peas bad-coffee married-heterosexual towns, crying-kids-in-the-Oldsmobile beat-your-kid-in the-Thriftway-aisles towns, one-bank one-service-station Greyhound-Bus-stop-at-the-Pepsi-Café towns, two-television towns, Miracle Mile towns, Viv's Double Wide Beauty Salon towns, schizophrenic-mother towns, buy-yourself-a-handgun towns, sister-suicide towns, only-good-Injun's-a-dead-Injun towns, Catholic-Protestant-Mormon-Baptist religious-right five-churches Republican-trickle-down-to-poverty family-values sexual-abuse pro-life creation-theory NRA towns, nervous-mother rodeo-clown-father those little-town-blues towns.

Daniel laid out three more lines and did his line first, then John, then me.

Fuck 'em.

Matching pickup and horse-trailer towns, superbowl Sunday towns, America-Love-It-or-Leave-It Ronald Reagan towns, the heartland,
I
'
Amérique profond
apple-pie mashed-potatoes-and-gravy towns, grain silos-by-the-train-tracks towns, county-sheriff-black-and-white-Chevy towns, Vietnam-vet-Native-Americans-buying-beer-in-the-open-24-hour-neon-by-the-freeway towns, Paul Harvey good-day towns.

John poured more Hennessy. I rolled cigarettes all around. Three more lines, one line each.

Fuck 'em.

All you local yokels. Four-wheel-drive Silverado fucking dog murderers.

From the fuck-you town: Fuck you!

Fuck hope, Daniel and John and I all toasted.

And the horse you rode in on, I toasted. Fuck the scared stallion hope rides in on! I said.

Daniel took a quick look at John. John's smile made Daniel smile.

And the horse you rode in on! Daniel and John said.

Fuck it.

We toasted.

A DARK RESTAURANT
all around. Halogen light down onto the smooth butcher paper on the round table. Café Cauchemar, Sade singing. The clock above the swinging red doors says 2:10
A
.
M
. if you squint. I've drawn an orange tree next to the cornflower-blue Fuck Hope. The butcher paper is the moon, reflected light, and the moon is my table.
With the pink red, I draw a moon on the paper, an image of the moon on the moon, two moons.

Oh, hell, Charlie.

Daniel and John are just beyond the moonlight, beyond hope, fucking New Yorkers in each other's faces talking talking, loud, fast, smoking the cigarettes I've rolled. I can't roll cigarettes fast enough, we're smoking so much, so we're smoking Marlboro Lights too. The Marlboro Lights are in the moonlight shadow of the Hennessy bottle, the line of Hennessy in the bottle low. With Harvest Yellow I trace the arch of Hennessy, then outline the shadow of the bottle.

High enough to think I am New York.

There's the moon, my arms and hands in the light of the moon, the Crayolas, the ashtrays overflowing, the Marlboro Lights, my bow tie, my corkscrew, my pens, the rolling papers, the tobacco. Then there's another bottle of Hennessy, and for John seltzer, and for me a can of Heineken, then John lights a joint and there's more smoke on the moon, clouds, and then I'm rolling cigarettes again.

The Sistine Chapel God is out there in the dark up on the ceiling, pointing. Out there, again again, is Sade's stuck loop “Smooth Operator.”

On the table, on the moon, into the light, I place my hand, fingers spread, and trace around my hand, cornflower blue, and my hand is on the moon.

How I love, how I cherish this moment, this tiny moment of redemption from the ordinary, my fifteen minutes of super-cool
sexy totale
. My long reach to the hand of God.

But it's not the truth.

It's not God, only cocaine, and this moment in between I am so present in, a moment so full of meaning and understanding, is a moment I will forget.

Daniel took his long-nailed pinkie finger to the next square of red paper. You hope for cocaine! Daniel said, and laughed again, so hard he had to stop with the red square and put it down. John was laughing too. John was leaning up against Daniel, laughing, Daniel's hand inside John's white shirt, under John's third button, moving his hand around under the shirt, up and down, side to side.

Champagne! Daniel screamed a little scream and threw his arms up like Rose, Rolex flash in the light, diamond ring flash-flash. John's shirt was unbuttoned to below where I could see. Daniel took his hand from John's nipple ring and John got up and danced out of the light into the dark, where there was the bar if you squinted. John put the flower bottle
on the butcher paper next to the Hennessy bottle and three chilled tulip glasses, popped the cork with his thumb, and screamed the little scream the way the guy in
La Cage aux Folls
screams when the champagne cork startles him, and John and Daniel laughed and started in on
La Cage aux Folles
and the time when the guy screams and gives the homosexuality away.