Pricksongs & Descants (24 page)

A PEDESTRIAN ACCIDENT

Paul stepped off the curb and got hit by a truck. He didn
’
t know what it was that hit him at first, but now, here on his back, under the truck, there could be no doubt. Is it me? he wondered. Have I walked the earth and come here
?

Just as he was struck, and while still tumbling in front of the truck and then under the wheels, in a kind of funhouse gambado of pain and terror, he had thought: this has happened before. His neck had sprung, there was a sudden flash of light and a blaze roaring up in the back of his head. The hot—almost fragrant—pain: that was new. It was the
place
he felt he
’
d returned to.

He lay perpendicular to the length of the truck, under the trailer, just to the rear of the truck
’
s second of three sets of wheels.

All of him was under the truck but his head and shoulders. Maybe I
’
m being born again, he reasoned. He stared straight up, past the side of the truck, toward the sky, pale blue and cloudless. The tops of skyscrapers closed toward the center of his vision; now that he thought about it, he realized it was the first time in years he had looked up at them, and they seemed inclined to fell. The old illusion; one of them anyway. The truck was red with white letters, but his severe angle of vision up the side kept him from being able to read the letters. A capital
“
K,
”
he could see that—and a number, yes, it seemed to be a
“
14.
”
He smiled inwardly at the irony, for he had a private fascination with numbers
: fourteen! He thought he remem
bered having had a green light, but it didn
’
t really matter. No way to prove it. It would have changed by now, in any case. The thought, obscurely, troubled him.

“
Crazy goddamn fool he just walk right out in fronta me no respect just burstin for a bustin!
”

The voice, familiar somehow, guttural, yet falsetto, came from above and to his right People were gathering to stare down at him, shaking their heads. He felt like one chosen. He tried to turn his head toward the voice, but his neck flashed hot again. Things were bad. Better just to lie still, take no chances. Anyway, he saw now, just in the corner of his eye, the cab of the truck, red like the trailer, and poking out its window, the large head of the truckdriyer, wagging in the sunshine. The driver wore a small tweed cap—too small, in fact: it sat just on top of his head.

“
Boy I seen punchies in my sweet time but this cookie takes the cake God bless the laboring classes I say and preserve us from the humble
freak!
”

The truckdriver spoke with broad gestures, bulbous eyes rolling, runty body thrusting itself in and out of the cab window, little hands flying wildly about Paul worried still about the light It was important, yet how could he ever know? The world was an ephemeral place, it could get away from you in a minute. The driver had a bent red nose and coarse reddish hair that stuck out like straw. A Bard shiny chin, too, like a mirror image of the hooked nose. Paul
’
s eyes wearied of the strain, and he had to stop looking.

“
Listen lays and gentmens I
’
m a good Christian by Judy a decent hardworkin fambly man earnin a honest wage and got a dear little woman and seven yearnin younguns all my own seed a responsible man and goddamn that boy what he do but walk right into me and my poor ole truck!
”

On some faces Paul saw compassion, or at least a neutral curiosity, an idle amusement, but on most he saw reproach. There were those who winced on witnessing his state and seemed to understand, but there were others—a majority—who jeered.

“
He asked for it if you ask me!
”

“
It
’
s the idler plays the fool and the workingman
’
s to hang for it!
”

“
Shouldn
’
t allow his kind out to walk the streets!
”

“
What is the use of running when you are on the wrong road?
”
It worsened. Their shouts grew louder and ran together. There were orations and the waving of flags. Paul was wondering: had he been carrying anything? No, no. He had only—
wait!
a book? Very likely, but... ah well Perhaps he was carrying it still. There was no feeling in his fingers.

The people were around him like flies, grievances were being aired, sides taken, and there might have been a brawl, but a police man arrived and broke it up.
“
All right, everybody! Stand back, please!
”
he shouted.
“
Give this man some air! Can
’
t you see he
’
s been injured?
”

At last, Paul thought He relaxed. For a moment, he
’
d felt himself in a strange and hostile country, but now he felt at home again. He even began to believe he might survive. Though really: had he ever doubted it?

“
Everybody back
, back!
”
The policeman was effective. The crowd grew quiet, and by die sound of their sullen shuffling, Paul guessed they were backing off. Not that he got more or less air by it, but he felt relieved just the same.
“
Now,
”
said the policeman, gently but firmly,
“
what has happened here?
”

And with that it all started up again, same as before, die clamor, the outrage, the arguments, the learned quotations, but louder and more discordant than ever. I
’
m hurt, Paul said. No one heard. The policeman cried out for order, and slowly, with his shouts, with his nightstick, with his threats, he reduced diem again to silence.

One lone voice hung at the end:
“
—for the last time, Mister,
stop goosing me
!
”
Everybody laughed, released.
“
Stop goosing her, sir!
”
the policeman commanded with his chin thrust firmly forward and everybody laughed again.

Paul almost laughed, but he couldn
’
t, quite. Besides, he
’
d just, with that, got the picture, and given his condition, it was not a funny one. He opened his eyes and there was the policeman bent down over him. He had a notebook in his hand.

“
Now, tell me, son, what happened here?
”
The policeman
’
s face was thin and pale, like a student
’
s, and he wore a trim little tuft of black moustache under the pinched peak of his nose.

I
’
ve just been hit, Paul explained, by this truck, and then he realized that he probably didn
’
t say it at all, that speech was an art no longer his. He cast his eyes indicatively toward the cab of the truck.

“
Listen, I asked you what happened here! Cat got your tongue, young man?
”
“
Crazy goddam fool he just walk right out in fronta me no respect just burstin for a bustin!
”

The policeman remained crouched over Paul, but turned his head up to look at the truckdriver. The policeman wore a brilliant blue uniform with large brass buttons. And gold epaulettes.

“
Boy I seen punchies in my sweet time but this cookie takes the cake God bless die laboring classes I say and preserve us from the humble freak!
”

The policeman looked down at Paul, then back at the truck-driver.
“
I know about truckdrivers,
”
Paul heard him say.

“
Listen lays and gentmens I
’
m a good Christian by Judy a decent hardworkin fambly man earnin a honest wage and got a dear little woman and seven yearnin younguns all my own seed
a responsible man
and goddamn that boy what he do but walk right into me and my poor oletrike. Track, I mean.
”

There was a loose tittering from the crowd, but the policeman
’
s frown and raised stick contained it
“
What
’
s your name, lad?
”
he asked, turning back to Paul. At first, the policeman smiled, he knew who truckdrivers were and he knew who Pauls were, and there was a salvation of sorts in that smile, but gradually it faded.
“
Come, come, boy! Don
’
t be afraid!
”
He winked, nudged him gently.
“
We
’
re here to help you.
”

Paul, Paul replied. But, no, no doubt about it, it was jammed up in there and he wasn
’
t getting it out.

“
Well, if you won
’
t help me, I can
’
t help you,
”
the policeman said pettishly and tilted his nose up.
“
Anybody here know this man?
”
he called out to the crowd.

Again a roar, a threatening tumult of words and sounds, shouts back and forth. It was hard to know if none knew him or if they all did. But men one voice, belted out above the others, came through:
“
O God in heaven! It
’
s Amory
!
Amory W
e
sterman
!
”
The voice, a woman
’
s, hysterical by the sound of it, drew near.
“
Amory
!
What ...
what
have they
done
to you?
”

Paul understood. It was not a mistake. He was astonished by his own acumen.

“
Do you know this young man?
”
the policeman asked, lifting his notebook.
“
What? Know him? Did Sarah know Abraham? Did Eve know Cain?
”
The policeman cleared his throat uneasily.
“
Adam,
”
he cor
rected softly.

“
You know who you know, I know who I know,
”
the woman said, and let fly with a low throaty snigger. The crowd responded with a belly laugh.

“
But this young man—!
”
the policeman insisted, flustered.

“
Who, you and Amory?
”
the woman cried.
‘
”i
can
’
t believe it!
”

The crowd laughed and the policeman bit his lip.
“
Amory
!
What
N
ew persecutions are these?
”
She billowed out above him: old, maybe even
seventy
, fat and bosomy, pasty-faced with thick red rouges, head haloed by ringlets of sparse orangish hair.
“
My poor Amory
!
”
And down she came on him. Paul tried to duck, got only
a hot flash in his neck for it.
Her breath reeke
d of cheap gin. Help, said Paul.

“
Hold, madame! Stop
!
”
the policeman cried, tugging at the woman
’
s sleeve. She stood, threw up her arms before her face, staggered backwards. What more she did, Paul couldn
’
t see, for his view of her face was largely blocked by the bulge of her breasts and belly. There were laughs, though.
“
Everything in order here,
”
grumped the policeman, tapping his notebook.
“
Now, what
’
s your name, please ... uh ... miss, madame?
”

“
My name?
”
She twirled gracelessly on one dropsied ankle and cried to the crowd:
“
Sha
ll I
tell?
”

Tell!
Tell
!
Tell!
”
shouted t
he spectators, clapping rhythmi
cally. Paul let himself be absorbed by it; there was, after all, nothing else to do.

The policeman, rapping a pencil against his blue notebook to the rhythm of the chant, leaned down over Paul and whispered: (
“
I think we
’
ve got them on our side now!
”
)