Ragged Company (10 page)

“Rock it is, then,” I said. “You have room for me here?”

Amelia waved me over to the seat beside her and as I squeezed past the three men we grinned at each other.

“It’s nice to see you,” I said as I seated myself.

“And you, too,” she said and gave my knee a small squeeze. I was embarrassed and looked about to see if any of the other patrons had caught the motion.

“So whose choice was it this time?” I asked no one in particular but leaned forward in my seat and looked down the row.

“Mine,” Timber said.

“Why this one, Timber?”

“Blue,” he said, and looked at his feet.

“Blue?”

“Yes. Blue.” He looked up at me. “The poster. It had a very calm, very light, very peaceful blue in the background.”

“An’ it’s got baseball in it,” Dick said. “I like baseball.”

“That’s because you’re out in left field all the friggin’ time,” Digger said, punching Dick’s knee lightly.

“And you?” Amelia asked. “Why are you here?”

“I liked the commentary I read,” I said. “And it’s not my usual thing. I felt like a change.”

“What’s not your usual thing?” she asked as the lights began to fade.

“Romance.”

“Oh, you’re a dedicated bachelor, are you?”

“No. Well, yes. But it’s not about that.”

“What’s it about, then?”

I looked at her. In the fading light her eyes glowed almost eerily, but there was kindness in her face. “Losses,” I said. “For me, romance is about losses. I guess I don’t really want to be reminded of that.”

She nodded and squeezed my knee again.

It turned out to be a story about returning. It was about how the spirit of people can sometimes reach across time and space and call you back to those places and those moments that defined you, even though you wrestle with that definition. It was about reclaiming the past and getting a foothold on the present and a step up into the future. It was about death. It was about departures, sudden and cold, and about families bound together in the eternal weft and weave of time, circumstance and love. It was about home, and I wanted to run away. But I stayed to the end.

We sat there, all of us, staring at the screen while the credits rolled, voiceless and unmoving, until finally Digger cleared his throat and stood, breaking the spell.

“I gotta smoke,” he said and headed out.

The rest of us gathered ourselves wordlessly and filed out. There was a weight to it all and I wondered what reactions they would have to what we’d just seen. We moved outside where Digger waited, puffing away and looking around at the rooftops nearby.

“Drink?” he asked.

“Yes,” Timber said.

“Sure,” Dick said.

“Yes,” I found myself saying. “My treat.”

“It’s getting to always be your treat,” Amelia said.

“That’s okay,” I said. “I like the company.”

“This ragged company?” she asked.

“Yes,” I said, smiling. “This ragged company.”

T
HERE’S A FAN
blows warm air out the back of a building into a rectangle of space with walls on three sides about the size of a jail cell. It stays warm there all year and there’s an overhang to keep the rain and snow off. The open end faces a hill at the back of a park and I can see the lights of the city at night when I curl up there. I’ve been staying there for years and it’s gotten so no one says nothing no more. I’m always careful to stash my cart in the bushes on the hill and I fold my blankets up neat and keep ’em in one small pile so no one’s really got nothing to complain about. They’re used to me. Frig, I even shovel snow off the sidewalks for a little cash now and then. It’s at the back so no one even has to see me and I like the privacy. It took me a long time to find it and the original manager was an okay guy named Gus who left me food now and then and even a bottle of whisky one Christmas. Gus was okay. He made it okay for me to be there and every manager since has been okay with it. I don’t fuck with that. I don’t make noise or get all pissed up and rowdy. It’s my space and I protect it that way.

I like the city in the early hours. I don’t fucking tell anybody that. A little too friggin’ soft and mushy for a guy like me, but the lights remind me of stars or the crazy lights on the water the moon makes sometimes. I sit there and look out at it, maybe slurp a little hooch to get the blood going, and then get up and get
on my way. Getting up and doing my thing has been my routine for a long time. I like to get it out of the way so I can get me out of the friggin’ way too. Way too much bullshit going on later in the day and way too easy to get caught up in a whole pile of crap you don’t really wanna. So I oil the wheels on my cart and head off on my back alley tour of town. It’s amazing the shit people throw away. I have found lamps, televisions, radios, small appliances, clothes, books, tools, luggage, and even a guitar one time along with the cans and bottles and metal I generally gather for cash at the second-hand and pawn shops. Every day is different. Every day there’s something else to blow my mind. Fucking Square Johns got no idea what things are worth, got no sense of the usefulness of a thing. All they know is it’s out of fashion, not new enough, not shiny anymore, or not the latest fucking thing. So they do the toss and get a new whatever. Guys like me know what things bring. Guys like me love the fact that the fucking Square John world is a throwaway fucking world. Guys like me live off that. Takes me four or five hours, and my route takes me through the alleys of the rich part of town. That’s why I oil the wheels. The cops have gotten okay with me over the years, used to me being around at that time, but there’s no sense fucking with the Square Johns in any way at all. So I oil the wheels so I don’t disturb anyone. Most days I end up with thirty bucks or more. I ain’t no fucking junkie or no pillhead, so thirty fish is a lot of fish. Keeps me in hooch, scores me a hot meal, pays for the smokes, and gets me a wash. It’s lots. And it’s always enough to get me into the flicks.

By the time noon comes I’m done, all cashed up and funky. I’ve seen the fucking desperate way the loogans and losers dash around trying to pull something together to feed their habit, their belly, or their head. Craziness. Like a fucking smash ’n grab, it’s a heat score too. No better way to attract the heat of a cop’s attention than to be scootin’ around trying to get hooked up. But that’s what they do and then they force you to listen to them bitch and moan about the hard fucking life they lead. Fuck ’em, I say. You wanna survive out here, you wanna be a rounder, you
grit your teeth and do whatever the fuck you gotta do to get things done. And you keep your mouth shut about it. No one wants to hear the whine. No one wants to hear the snivel. But the beat goes on anyway and the faces change and people die and the street stays the same. Bitching and moaning don’t change nothing, it just pisses people off. So there I am every day, done and ready to hang while the majority of ’em are still bug-eyed with desperation.

Been like that every day. Every day but the one day. The day that changed everything.

There I am cashed up, heading toward the Mission to meet the others, feeling the glow of a job well done and a drink well taken. I got a mitt full of moolah, a pocket full of smokes, a belly full of booze, and life is on the fucking rails again.

You kick things when you been on the bricks enough. You kick bags to see if there’s anything in them. You kick boxes to hear the thunk that’ll tell you if something’s inside. You kick beer cans and bottles. You kick cast-off clothing. Mostly you kick so you don’t have to bend. You still got pride when you’re a rounder and you don’t want people to see you bending over in the street checking out the empties. So you learn to kick things. It’s a habit after a while. So I see this cigarette pack on the sidewalk and I give it a boot. Instead of flipping end over end like an empty does, this fucker slides along the concrete. Slides. Heavy. Full, maybe. So I do the once over the shoulder thing to see if anyone’s checking me out, bend over, scoop it up, and tuck it in my pocket. Once I’m around the corner I pull it out and cop a boo inside.

There’s three-quarters of a pack of tailor-mades in there. I feel luckier than shit. Then I notice a little green behind the foil on one side. When I pull the edge of it I see a twenty-dollar bill. Scoring a double sawbuck is a mighty big thing and I’m feeling even luckier. When I unfold the bill it turns out to be sixty and I’m about to go through the roof. There’s a yellow piece of paper in there too, so I tuck it in my pocket, fire up one of the smokes, and sashay on down the fucking avenue. A glorious day to be alive.

The others are sitting around checking out the movie listings. I must have been grinning like the cat that ate the fucking mouse or something ’cause the old lady flashes a big beamer at me.

“Digger,” she goes, “you look mighty happy with yourself today.”

“Yeah,” I go, “well, some days it’s just a friggin’ joy to be me.”

“Little early to be that loaded, ain’t it?” Timber goes.

“Hey, even if I was pissed up and rowdy it’d be okay today, Timber,” I go, slapping him on the back and pulling up a chair. “Thing is, I could afford it today.”

“Did you have a good day on your route?” Dick goes. He’s always interested in hearing about the shit I discover out there. Interested but never enough to grab a fucking cart himself and do the work.

“Dick,” I go. “I had the day of days.”

The old lady’s still grinning away at me. “Sounds like you found something exciting out there.”

“If free money and a pack of smokes is exciting then, yeah, I guess I did find something rather cool,” I go, tossing the doubles on the table along with the tailor-mades. “The flicks are on me today.”

“Wow,” Dick goes. “Can I have one?”

“A smoke, yeah, but mitts off the loot.”

“Cadillacs,” Timber goes, reaching out and taking a tailor-made. “Been a while. Roll-your-owns and butts have been all I smoked for a long time.”

“Well, fill yer boots, pal,” I go.

We sit there, the three of us, smoking, one leg thrown over the other, leaning back in our chairs, faces pointed at the ceiling, smoke rings drifting through and past each other, and we’re like lords of the fucking manor. Some days a little thing like a tailor-made cigarette can be the biggest thing in the world, and right then, it was.

“Ahh,” I go. “Nothing like a good friggin’ smoke. Got any hooch?”

“I got a mickey,” Dick goes.

“Cool. Hand ’er over here, guv’ner.”

I take a quick swig and pass the rum back to Dick under the table. The Mission people know we drink but they pretend to not notice as long as you behave yourself and don’t get all fucked up and make trouble. Still, it’s good practice to play the fucking game.

“Well then,” I go. “What’s it gonna be today?”

“
Field of Dreams,
” the old lady goes.

“
Field of Dreams?
”

“Yes. It sounds quite nice.”

“Nice? Ah, never mind. I could probably do with nice today for a change.
Field of Dreams
it is, then.”

“So that’s pretty lucky, Digger,” Timber goes.

“Yeah,” I go. “There’s this other thing, too.”

“What thing?”

“This thing,” I go, reaching into my pocket and pulling out the yellow piece of paper.

“What is it?” Dick goes, leaning across and looking at the paper in my hand.

“I don’t know. Probably nothing.”

“It’s a lottery ticket,” Timber goes.

“A lottery ticket?”

“Yeah. It’s a big thing now. You pay your money, they give you a bunch of numbers, and if they draw yours you win.”