Run With the Hunted (14 page)

I can find some decent humans,

somebody who can treat me

better.

that good rare feeling comes at the oddest times: once, after sleeping

on a park bench in some strange town I awakened, my clothing

damp from a light mist and I rose and started walking east right into

the face of the rising sun and inside me was a gentle joy that was simply

there.

another time after picking up a streetwalker we strolled along in

the 2 a.m. moonlight side by side

toward my cheap room but I had no desire to bed her down.

the gentle joy came from simply walking along beside her in this confusing

universe—we were companions, strange companions walking together,

saying nothing.

her purple and white scarf hung from her purse—floating in the dark

as we walked

and the music could have come from the light from the moon.

then there was the time

I was evicted for non-payment of rent and carried my

woman's suitcase to a stranger's door and saw her vanish

inside, stood there a while, heard first her laugh, then his, then I

left.

I was walking along, it was a hot 10 a.m., the

sun blinded me and all I was conscious of was the sound of

my shoes on the pavement. then

I heard a voice, “hey, buddy, you got anything to spare?”

I looked, and sitting against a wall were 3 middle-aged bums, red-faced,

ridiculously lost and beaten. “how much are you

short for a bottle?” I asked. “24 cents,” one of them

said. I reached into my

pocket, got all the change and handed it to him. “god damn, man,

thank

you!” he said.

I walked on, then felt the need for a cigarette, fumbled through

my

pockets, felt some paper, pulled it

out: a 5 dollar bill.

another time came while fighting the bartender, Tommy (again), in

the

back alley for the entertainment of the patrons, I was taking my

usual

beating, all the girls in their hot panties rooting for their muscular

Irish man's man (“oh, Tommy, kick his ass, kick his ass good!”)

when something clicked in my brain, my brain simply said,

“it's time for something else,” and I cracked Tommy

hard along the side of the head and he gave me a look:
wait, this

isn't in the script
, and then I landed another and I could see the fear

rise in him like a torrent, and I

finished him quick and then the patrons helped him up and inside

while

cursing me. What gave me that joy

that silent laughter within the self was that I had done it because

there is a limit to any man's endurance.

I walked to a strange bar a block away, sat down and ordered a

beer.

“we don't serve bums here,” the barkeep told me. “I'm no bum,” I

said, “bring me that beer.” the beer

arrived, I took a heady gulp and I was there.

good rare feelings come at the oddest times, like now as I tell

you all of this.

in San Francisco the landlady, 80, helped me drag the green

Victrola up the stairway and I played Beethoven's 5th

until they beat on the walls.

there was a large bucket in the center of the room

filled with beer and winebottles;

so, it might have been the d.t.'s, one afternoon

I heard a sound something like a bell

only the bell was humming instead of ringing,

and then a golden light appeared in the corner of the room

up near the ceding

and through the sound and light

shone the face of a woman, worn but beautiful,

and she looked down at me

and then a man's face appeared by hers,

the light became stronger and the man said:

we, the artists, are proud of you!

then the woman said: the poor boy is frightened,

and I was, and then it went away.

I got up, dressed, and went to the bar

wondering who the artists were and why they should be

proud of me. there were some live ones in the bar

and I got some free drinks, set my pants on fire with the

ashes from my corncob pipe, broke a glass deliberately,

was not rousted, met a man who claimed he was William

Saroyan, and we drank until a woman came in and

pulled him out by the ear and I thought, no, that can't be

William, and another guy came in and said: man, you talk

tough, well, listen, I just got out for assault and

battery, so don't mess with me! we went outside the

bar, he was a good boy, he knew how to duke, and it went

along fairly even, then they stopped it and we went

back in and drank another couple of hours. I walked

back up to my place, put on Beethoven's 5th and

when they beat on the walls I beat

back.

I keep thinking of myself young, then, the way I was,

and I can hardly believe it but I don't mind it.

I hope the artists are still proud of me

but they never came back

again.

the war came running in and next I knew

I was in New Orleans

walking into a bar drunk

after falling down in the mud on a rainy night.

I saw one man stab another and I walked over and

put a nickel in the juke box.

it was a beginning. San

Francisco and New Orleans were two of my

favorite towns.

lonely as a dry and used orchard

spread over the earth

for use and surrender.

shot down like an ex-pug selling

dailies on the comer.

taken by tears like

an aging chorus girl

who has gotten her last check.

a hanky is in order your lord your

worship.

the blackbirds are rough today

like

ingrown toenails

in an overnight

jail—

wine wine whine,

the blackbirds run around and

fly around

harping about

Spanish melodies and bones.

and everywhere is

nowhere—

the dream is as bad as

flapjacks and flat tires:

why do we go on

with our minds and

pockets full of

dust

like a bad boy just out of

school—

you tell

me,

you who were a hero in some

revolution

you who teach children

you who drink with calmness

you who own large homes

and walk in gardens

you who have killed a man and own a

beautiful wife

you tell me

why I am on fire like old dry

garbage.

we might surely have some interesting

correspondence.

it will keep the mailman busy.

and the butterflies and ants and bridges and

cemeteries

the rocket-makers and dogs and garage mechanics

will still go on a

while

until we run out of stamps

and/or

ideas.

don't be ashamed of

anything; I guess God meant it all

like

locks on

doors.

you haven't lived

until you've been in a

flophouse

with nothing but one

light bulb

and 56 men

squeezed together

on cots

with everybody

snoring

at once

and some of those

snores

so

deep and

gross and

unbelievable—

dark

snotty

gross

subhuman

wheezings

from hell

itself.

your mind

almost breaks

under those

death-like

sounds

and the

intermingling

odors:

hard

unwashed socks

pissed and

shitted

underwear

and over it all

slowly circulating

air

much like that

emanating from

uncovered

garbage

cans.

and those

bodies

in the dark

fat and

thin

and

bent

some

legless

armless

some

mindless

and worst of

all:

the total

absence of

hope

it shrouds

them

covers them

totally.

it's not

bearable.

you get

up

go out

walk the

streets

up and

down

sidewalks

past buildings

around the

corner

and back

up

the same

street

thinking

those men

were all

children

once

what has happened

to

them?

and what has

happened

to

me?

it's dark

and cold

out

here.

 

I arrived in New Orleans in the rain at 5 o'clock in the morning. I sat around in the bus station for a while but the people depressed me so I took my suitcase and went out in the rain and began walking. I didn't know where the roominghouses were, where the poor section was.

I had a cardboard suitcase that was falling apart. It had once been black but the black coating had peeled off and yellow cardboard was exposed. I had tried to solve that by putting black shoepolish over the exposed cardboard. As I walked along in the rain the shoepolish on the suitcase ran and unwittingly I rubbed black streaks on both legs of my pants as I switched the suitcase from hand to hand.

Well, it was a new town. Maybe I'd get lucky.

The rain stopped and the sun came out. I was in the black district. I walked along slowly.

“
Hey, poor white trash!
”

I put my suitcase down. A high yellow was sitting on the porch steps swinging her legs. She did look good.

“
Hello, poor white trash!
”

I didn't say anything. I just stood there looking at her.