Out on the Cutting Edge (17 page)

He filled a glass with ice cubes, then with Coke. I put a ten on the bar. He took it to the register, punched No Sale, and returned with eight singles and a pair of quarters. I left my change on the bar in front of me and sipped at my Coke.

The television set was showing Santa Fe Trail, with Errol Flynn and Olivia de Havilland. Flynn was playing Jeb Stuart, and an impossibly young Ronald Reagan was playing George Armstrong Custer. The movie was in black and white, with the commercials in color.

I sipped my Coke and watched the movie, and when the commercials came on I turned on my stool and watched the fellow in back shoot darts. He would toe the line and lean so far forward I kept thinking he would be unable to keep his balance, but he evidently knew what he was doing; he stayed on his feet, and the darts all wound up in the board.

After I'd been there twenty minutes or so, a black man in work clothes came in wanting to know how to get to DeWitt Clinton High School. The bartender claimed not to know, which seemed unlikely. I could have told him, but I didn't volunteer, and no one else spoke up, either.

"Supposed to be around here somewhere," the man said. "I got a delivery, and the address they gave me ain't right. I'll take a beer while I'm here."

"There's something wrong with the pressure. All I'm getting is foam."

"Bottled beer be fine."

"We only have draught."

"Guy in the booth has a bottle of beer."

"He must have brought it with him."

The message got through. "Well, shit," the driver said. "I guess this here's the Stork Club. Fancy place like this, you got to be real careful who you serve." He stared hard at the bartender, who gazed back at him without showing a thing. Then he turned and walked out fast with his head lowered, and the door swung shut behind him.

A little while later the dart player sauntered over and the bartender drew him a pint of the draught Guinness, thick and black, with a rich creamy head on it. He said, "Thanks, Tom," and drank, then wiped the foam from his mouth onto his sleeve. "Fucking niggers," he said.

"Pushing in where they're not wanted."

The bartender didn't respond, just took money and brought back change. The dart player took another long drink of stout and wiped his mouth again on his sleeve. His T-shirt advertised a tavern called the Croppy Boy, on Fordham Road in the Bronx. His billed cap advertised Old Milwaukee beer.

To me he said, "Game of darts? Not for money, I'm too strong a player, but just to pass the time."

"I don't even know how to play."

"You try to get the pointed end into the board."

"I'd probably hit the fish." There was a fish mounted on the wall above the dart board, and a deer's head off to one side. Another larger fish was mounted above the back bar, it was a sailfish or marlin, one of the ones with a long bill.

"Just to pass the time," he said.

I couldn't remember the last time I'd thrown a dart, and I hadn't been good at it then. Time had by no means improved my skills. We played a game, and as hard as he worked to look bad, I still didn't come out looking good. When he won the game in spite of himself, he said,

"You're pretty good, you know."

"Oh, come on."

"You've got the touch. You haven't played and your aim's not sharp, but you've got a nice light wrist. Let me buy you a beer."

"I'm drinking Coca-Cola."

"That there is why your aim's off. The beer relaxes you, lets you just think the dart into the board. The black stuff's the best, the Guinness.

It works on your mind like polish on silver. Takes the tarnish right off.

That do you, or would you rather have a bottle of Harp?"

"Thanks, but I'll stay with Coke."

He bought me a refill, and another black pint for himself. He told me his name was Andy Buckley. I gave him my name, and we played another game of darts. He foot-faulted a couple of times, showing a clumsiness he hadn't revealed when he was practicing. When he did it a second time I gave him a look and he had to laugh. "I know I can't hustle you, Matt," he said. "You know what it is? It's force of habit."

He won the game quickly and didn't coax when I said no to another. It was my turn to buy a round. I didn't want another Coke. I bought him a Guinness, and had a club soda for myself. The bartender rang

the "No Sale" key and took money from my stack of change.

Buckley took the stool next to mine. On the television screen, Errol Flynn was winning De Havilland's heart and Reagan was being gracious in defeat. "He was a handsome bastard," Buckley said.

"Reagan?"

"Flynn. In like Flynn, all he had to do was look at them and they wet their pants. I don't think I've seen you here before, Matt."

"I don't come around very often."

"You live around here?"

"Not too far. You?"

"Not far. It's quiet, you know? And the beer's good, and I like the darts."

After a few minutes he went back to the dart board. I stayed where I was. A little later the bartender, Tom, glided over and topped up my glass of soda water without asking. He didn't take any money from me.

A couple of men left. One came in, conferred with Tom in an undertone, and went out again. A man in a suit and tie came in, had a double vodka, drank it right down, ordered another, drank that right down, put a ten-dollar bill on the bar, and walked out. This entire exchange was carried out without a word from him or the bartender.

On the television set, Flynn and Reagan went up against Raymond Massey's version of John Brown at Harper's Ferry. Van Heflin, rotten little opportunist that he was, got what was coming to him.

I got out of there while the credits were rolling. I scooped up my change, put a couple of bucks back on the bar for Tom, and left.

Outside, I asked myself what the hell I'd thought I was doing there.

Earlier I'd been thinking of Eddie, and then I'd looked up and found myself in front of the place he'd been afraid to get near. Maybe I went in myself in order to get a sense of who he'd been before I knew him.

Maybe I was hoping for a peek at the Butcher Boy himself, the notorious Mickey Ballou.

What I'd found was a ginmill, and what I'd done was hang out in it.

Strange.

I called Willa from my room. "I was just looking at your flowers,"

she said.

"They're your flowers," I said. "I gave them to you."

"No strings attached, huh?"

"No strings. I was wondering if you felt like a movie."

"What movie?"

"I don't know. Why don't I come by for you around six or a little after? We'll see what's playing on Broadway and get a bite later."

"On one condition."

"What's that?"

"It's my treat."

"It was your treat last night."

"What was last night? Oh, we had Chinese. Did I pay for that?"

"You insisted."

"Well, shit. Then you can pay for dinner."

"That was my plan."

"But the movie's on me."

"We'll split the movie."

"We'll work it out when you get here. What time? Six?"

"Around then."

She wore the blue silk blouse again, this time over loose khaki fatigues with drawstring cuffs. Her hair was braided in twin pigtails, in the style of an Indian maiden. I took hold of her pigtails and held them out at the sides. "Always different," I said.

"I'm probably too old for long hair."

"That's ridiculous."

"Is it? I don't even care, anyway. I wore it short for years. It's fun to be able to do things with it."

We kissed, and I tasted scotch on her breath. It wasn't shocking anymore. Once you got used to it, it was a pleasant taste.

We kissed a second time. I moved my mouth to her ear, then down along her neck. She clung to me and heat flowed from her loins and breasts.

She said, "What time's the movie?"

"Whenever we get there."

"Then there's no hurry, is there?"

We went to a first-run house on Times Square. Harrison Ford triumphed over Palestinian terrorists. He was no match for Errol Flynn, but he was a cut above Reagan.

Afterward we went to Paris Green again. She tried the filet of sole and approved of it. I stayed with what I'd had the other night, cheeseburger and fries and salad.

She had white wine with her meal, just a glass of it, and brandy with her coffee.

We talked a little about her marriage, and then a little about mine.

Over coffee I found myself talking about Jan, and about how things had gone wrong.

"It's a good thing you kept your hotel room," she said. "What would it cost if you gave it up and then wanted to move back in?"

"I couldn't do it. It's inexpensive for a hotel, but they get sixty-five dollars a night for their cheapest single. What does that come to? Two thousand dollars a month?"

"Around there."

"Of course they'd give you some kind of a monthly rate, but it would still have to be well over a thousand dollars. If I had moved out I couldn't possibly afford to move back in. I'd have had to get an apartment somewhere, and I might have had trouble finding one I could afford in Manhattan." I considered. "Unless I got serious and found some kind of real job for myself."

"Could you do that?"

"I don't know. A year or so ago there was a guy who wanted me to go in with him and open a bona fide detective agency. He thought we could get a lot of industrial work, trademark infringement, employee pilferage control, that sort of thing."

"You weren't interested?"

"I was tempted. It's a challenge, making a go of something like that. But I like the space in the life I lead now. I like to be able to go to a meeting whenever I want, or just take a walk in the park or sit for two hours reading everything in the paper. And I like where I live. It's a dump, but it suits me."

"You could open a legitimate agency and still stay where you are."

I nodded. "But I don't know if it would still suit me. People who succeed usually want the trappings of success to justify the energy they have to put into it. They spend more money, and they get used to it, and then they need the money. I like the fact that I don't need very much. My rent's cheap, and I really like it that way."

"It's so funny."

"What is?"

"This city. Start talking about anything and you wind up talking about real estate."

"I know."

"It's impossible to avoid. I put a sign by the doorbells, No Apartments Available."

"I saw it earlier."

"And I still had three people ring the bell to make sure I didn't have something for rent."

"Just in case."

"They thought maybe I just kept the sign there all the time to cut down the volume of inquiries. And at least one of them knew I'd just lost a tenant, so maybe he figured I hadn't gotten around to taking down the sign. There was a piece in the Times today, one of the ma-jor builders is announcing plans to build two middle-income projects west of Eleventh Avenue to house people with family incomes under fifty thousand dollars. God knows it's needed, but I don't think it'll be enough to make any difference."

"You're right. We started talking about relationships and we're talking about apartments."

She put her hand on mine. "What's today? Thursday?"

"For another hour or so?"

"And I met you when? Tuesday afternoon? That seems impossible."

"I know."

"I don't want this to go too fast. But I don't want to put the brakes on, either. Whatever happens with us--"

"Yes?"

"Keep your hotel room."

When I first got sober there was a midnight meeting every night at the Moravian Church at Thirtieth and Lexington. The group lost the space, and the meeting moved to Alanon House, a sort of AA clubhouse occupying an office suite just off Times Square.

I walked Willa home and then headed over to Times Square and the midnight meeting. I don't go there often. They get a young crowd, and most of the people who show up have more drugs than alcohol in their histories.

But I couldn't afford to be choosy. I hadn't been to a meeting since Tuesday night. I'd missed two nights in a row at my home group, which was unusual for me, and I hadn't gone to any daytime meetings to pick up the slack. More to the point, I had spent an uncharacteristic amount of time around alcohol in the past fifty-six hours. I was sleeping with a woman who drank the stuff, and I'd whiled away the afternoon in a saloon, and a pretty lowlife one at that. The thing to do was go to a meeting and talk about it.

I went to the meeting, getting there just in time to grab a cup of coffee and a seat before it got started.

The speaker was sober less than six months, still what they call mocus-- mixed up, confused, uncentered. It was hard to track his story, and my mind kept flitting around, wandering down avenues of its own.

Afterward I couldn't make myself raise my hand. I had visions of some soberer-than-thou asshole giving me a lot of advice I didn't want or need. I already knew what kind of advice I'd get from Jim Faber, say, or from Frank. If you don't want to slip, stay out of slippery places. Don't go in bars without a reason.

Bars are for drinking. You want to watch TV, you got a set in your room. You want to play darts, go buy a dart board.

Jesus, I knew what anyone with a few years in the program would tell me. It was the same advice I'd give to anyone in my position. Call your sponsor. Stay close to the program. Double up on your meetings.

When you get up in the morning, ask God to help you stay sober. When you go to bed at night, thank him. If you can't get to a meeting, read the Big Book, read the Twelve & Twelve, pick up the phone and call somebody. Don't isolate, because when you're by yourself you're in bad company. And let people know what's going on with you, because you're as sick as your secrets. And remember this: You're an alcoholic. You're not all better now. You'll never be cured. All you are, all you'll ever be, is one drink away from a drunk.