Mercy (38 page)

and kicks up dust, and somewhere a fire starts, somewhere

close, and somewhere police in helmets with nightsticks are

bearing down on the carnivorous beast, somewhere close and

you can hear the skulls cracking open, and the blood comes,

somewhere close there’s blood, and you can hear guns, there’s

guns somewhere close because you smell the burning smell,

it’s heat rising o ff someone’s open chest, the singed skin still

sm oking where the bullet went through; the w o lfs being beat

down— shot over and over, wounded, torn open— it’s big

manly cops doing it, steel faces, lead boots— they ain’t

harassing whores tonight. It looks like foreplay, the w ay the

cops bear down on the undulating mass; I stroke your face

with m y nightstick; the lover tames the beloved; death does

quiet you down. But a pig can’t kill a wolf. The w o lfs the

monster prick, then the pigs come and turn the w o lf into a girl,

then it’s payback time and the w o lf rises again. In the day

when the w o lf sleeps there are still fires; anything can suddenly

go up in flames and you can’t tell the difference at first between

a fire and a summer day, the sun on the garbage, the hot air

making the ghetto buildings swell, the brick bulging,

deformed and in places melting, all the solid brick w avy in the

heat. At night the crowd rises, the w o lf rises, the great

predator starts a long, slow walk toward the bullets waiting

for it. The violence is in the air; not symbol; not metaphor; it’s

thick and tasty; the air’s charged with it; it crackles around

your head; then you stay in or go out, depending on— can you

stand being trapped inside or do you like the open street? I

sleep days. It’s safer. I sleep in daylight. I stay awake nights. I

keep an eye out. I don’t like to be unconscious. I don’t like the

w ay you get limp. I don’ t like how you can’t hear what goes

on around you. I don’t like that you can’t see. I don’t like to be

waiting. I don’t like that you get no warning. I don’t like not to

know where I am. I don’t like not to know m y name. I sleep in

the day because it’s safer; at night, I face the streets, the crowd,

the predator, any predator, head on. I’d rather be there. I want

to see it coming at me, the crowd or anything else or anyone. I

want it to look at me and I want a chance. There’s gangs

everywhere. There’s arson or fires or w o lf packs or packs o f

men; men and gangs. The men outside m y door are banging;

they want to come in; big group fuck; they tear me apart; b oys’

night out. It’s about eight or nine at night and I’m going out

soon, it’s a little too early yet, I hear them banging on the door

with knives and fists, I can’t get out past them, there’s only one

w ay out; I can’t get past them. Once night comes it’s easy to

seal you in. Night comes and you have the rules o f the grave,

different rules from daylight, they can do things at night,

everyone can, they can’t do in the day; they will break the door

down, no one here calls the police, I don’t have a gun, I have

one knife, a pathetic thing, I sleep with it under m y pillow. I

figure if someone’s right on top o f me I can split him apart

with it. I figure if he’s already on top o f me because I didn’t

hear him and didn’t see him because I was unconscious and I

wake up and he’s there I can stick it in him or I can cut his

throat. I figure it gives me time to come to, then I try for his

throat, but if I’m too late, if I can’t get it, i f he’s som ehow so I

can’t get his throat, then I can get his back. O r I can finish

m yself o ff i f there’s no other w ay; I think about it each time I

lie down to sleep, if I can do it, draw the knife across m y

throat, fast, I try to prepare m yself to do it, in m y mind I make

a vo w and I practice the stroke before I sleep. I think it’s better

to kill him but I just can’t bear them no longer, really, and it’s

unknown i f I could do it to me; so fast; but I keep practicing in

m y mind so if the time comes I w o n ’t even think. It would be

the right thing. I don’t really believe in hurting him or anyone.

I have the knife; I can’t stand to think about using it, what it

would be like, or going to jail for hurting him, I never wanted

to kill anybody and I’d do almost anything not to. I know the

men outside, they’re neighborhood, this block, they broke in

before, in daylight, smashed everything, took everything,

they ran riot in here, they tell me they’re coming to fuck me,

they say so out on the street, hanging on the stoop; they say so.

T h ey’ve broken in here before, that’s when I started sleeping

with the knife. Inside there’s too many hours to dawn; too

many hours o f dark to hold them off; they’ll get in; I know this

small world as well as they do, I know what they can do and

what they can’t do and once it’s night they can break the door

down and no one will stop them; and the police don’t come

here; you never see a cop here; there’s no w ay to keep them out

and m y blood’s running cold from the banging, from the noise

o f them, fists, knives, I don’t know what, sticks, I guess,

maybe baseball bats, the arsenal o f the streets. The telephone’s

worthless, they cut the wire when they broke in; but no one

would come. This is the loneliest I ever knew existed; now;

them banging. There’s things you learn, tricks; no one can

hurt me. I’m not some stupid piece o f shit. Y ou got a gang

outside, banging, making threats. They want to come in;

fuck. T h ey’ll kill me; fuck me dead or kill me after. It’s like

anything, you have to face what’s true, you don’t get to say if

you want to handle it or not, you handle it to stay alive. So

what’s it to me; if I can just get through it; minimum damage,

minimum pain, the goal o f all women all the time and it’s not

different now. If you’re ever attacked by a gang you have to

get the leader. If you get him, disable him, pull him away from

the others, kill him, render him harmless, the others are

nothing. If you miss him, attack him but miss, wound him,

irritate him, aggravate him, rile him, humiliate him without

taking him out, you are human waste, excreta. So it’s clear;

there’s one way. There’s him. I have to get him. if I can pull

him away from them, to me, I have a chance; a chance. I open

the door. I think if I grab him between the legs I’m in charge; if

I pull his thing. I learn the limits o f m y philosophy. Every

philosophy’s got them. I ain’t in charge. It’s fast. It’s simple. I

open the door. It’s a negotiation. The agreement is he comes

in, they stay out; he doesn’t bring the big knife he has in with

him; it stays outside; if I mess with him, he will hurt me with it

and turn me over to them; if anything bad happens to him or if

I don’t make him happy, he will turn me over to them. This is

consent, right? I opened the door myself. I picked him. I just

got to survive him; and tom orrow find a w ay out; away from

here. He comes in; he’s Pedro or Jo e or Juan; he swaggers,

touches everything, there’s not much left he notes with

humor; he wants me to cook him dinner; he finds m y knife; he