Run With the Hunted (21 page)

At one time one of my jobs in New York City had been to take bolts of fabric up to lofts like this. I would roll my hand truck in the busy street, pushing it through traffic, then into an alley behind some grimy building. There would be a dark elevator and I'd have to pull on ropes with stained round wooden spools attached. One rope meant up, another rope signalled down. There was no light and as the elevator climbed slowly I'd watch in the dark for white numbers written on the bare walls—3, 7, 9, scrawled in chalk by some forgotten hand. I'd reach my floor, tug on another rope with my fingers and using all my strength slowly slide open the heavy old metal door, revealing row upon row of old Jewish ladies at their machines, laboring over piecework; the number one seamstress at the #1 machine, bent on maintaining her place; the number two girl at the #2 machine, ready to replace her should she falter. They never looked up or in any way acknowledged my presence as I entered.

In this clothing factory and store in Miami Beach, no deliveries were necessary. Everything was on hand. My first day I walked around the maze of lofts looking at people. Unlike New York, most of the workers were black. I walked up to a black man, quite small—almost tiny, who had a more pleasant face than most. He was doing some close work with a needle. I had a half pint in my pocket. “You got a rotten job there. Care for a drink?”

“Sure,” he said. He took a good hit. Then handed the bottle back. He offered me a cigarette. “You new in town?” “Yeah.” “Where you from?” “Los Angeles.” “Movie star?” “Yes, on vacation.” “You shouldn't be talking to the help.” “I know.” He fell silent. He looked like a little monkey, an old graceful monkey. For the boys downstairs, he
was
a monkey. I took a hit. I was feeling good. I watched them all working quietly under their thirty watt bulbs, their hands moving delicately and swiftly. “My name's Henry,” I said. “Brad,” he answered. “Listen, Brad, I get the deep deep blues watching you people work. Suppose I sing you guys and gals a little song?” “Don't.” “You've got a rotten job there. Why do you do it?” “Shit, ain't no other way.” “The Lord said there was.” “You believe in the Lord?” “No.” “What do you believe in?” “Nothing.” “We're even.”

I talked to some of the others. The men were uncommunicative, some of the women laughed at me. “I'm a spy,” I laughed back. “I'm a company spy. I'm watching everybody.”

I took another hit. Then I sang them my favorite song, “My Heart Is a Hobo.” They kept working. Nobody looked up. When I finished they were still working. It was quiet for some time. Then I heard a voice: “Look, white boy, don't come down on us.”

I decided to go hose off the front sidewalk.

It took four days and five nights for the bus to reach Los Angeles. As usual I neither slept nor defecated during the trip. There was some minor excitement when a big blonde got on somewhere in Louisiana. That night she started selling it for $2, and every man and one woman on the bus took advantage of her generosity except me and the bus driver. Business was transacted at night in the back of the bus. Her name was Vera. She wore purple lipstick and laughed a lot. She approached me during a brief stop in a coffee and sandwich shop. She stood behind me and asked, “Whatsa matter, you too good for me?” I didn't reply. “A fag,” I heard her mutter disgustedly as she sat down next to one of the regular guys …

In Los Angeles I toured the bars in our old neighborhood looking for Jan. I didn't get anywhere until I found Whitey Jackson working behind the bar in the Pink Mule. He told me that Jan was working as a chambermaid in the Durham Hotel at Beverly and Vermont. I walked on over. I was looking for the manager's office when she stepped out of a room. She looked good, like getting away from me for a while had helped her. Then she saw me. She just stood there, her eyes got very blue and round and she stood there. Then she said it, “Hank!” She rushed over and we were in each others arms. She kissed me wildly, I tried to kiss back. “Jesus,” she said, “I thought I'd never see you again!” “I'm back.” “Are you back for good?” “L.A.'s my town.” “Step back,” she said, “let me look at you.” I stepped back, grinning. “You're thin. You've lost weight,” Jan said. “You're looking good,” I said, “are you alone?” “Yes.” “There's nobody?” “Nobody. You know I can't stand people.” “I'm glad you're working.” “Come to my room,” she said.

I followed her. The room was very small but there was a good feel to it. You could look out the window and see the traffic, watch the signals working, see the paperboy on the corner. I liked the place. Jan threw herself on the bed. “Come on, lay down,” she said. “I'm embarrassed.” “I love you, you idiot,” she said, “we've fucked eight hundred times, so relax.” I took my shoes off and stretched out. She lifted a leg. “Still like my legs?” “Hell yes. Jan, have you finished your work?” “All but Mr. Clark's room. And Mr. Clark doesn't care. He leaves me tips.” “Oh?” “I'm not doing anything. He just leaves tips.” “Jan …” “Yes?” “The bus fare took all my money. I need a place to stay until I find a job.” “I can hide you here.” “Can you?” “Sure.” “I love you, baby,” I said. “Bastard,” she said. We began to go at it. It felt good. It felt very very good.

Afterwards Jan got up and opened a bottle of wine. I opened my last pack of cigarettes and we sat in bed drinking and smoking. “You're all there,” she said. “What do you mean?” “I mean, I never met a man like you.” “Oh yeah?” “The others are only ten per cent there or twenty per cent, you're all there,
all
of you is very there, it's so different.” “I don't know anything about it.” “You're a hooker, you can hook women.” That made me feel good. After we finished our cigarettes we made love again. Then Jan sent me out for another bottle. I came back. I had to.

I got hired immediately at a fluorescent light fixture company. It was up on Alameda Street, to the north, in a cluster of warehouses. I was the shipping clerk. It was quite easy, I took the orders out of a wire basket, filled them, packed the fixtures in cartons, and stacked the cartons on skids out on the loading dock, each carton labeled and numbered. I weighed the cartons, made out a bill of lading, and phoned the trucking companies to come pick the stuff up.

The first day I was there, in the afternoon, I heard a loud crash behind me near the assembly line. The old wooden racks that housed the finished parts were pulling away from the wall and crashing to the floor—metal and glass were hitting the cement floor, smashing, making a terrible racket. The assembly line workers ran to the other side of the building. Then it was silent. The boss, Mannie Feldman, stepped out of the office.

“
What the hell's going on here?
”

Nobody answered.

“
All right, shut down the assembly line! Everybody get a hammer and nails and get those fucking racks back up there!
”

Mr. Feldman walked back into his office. There was nothing for me to do but to get in and help them. None of us were carpenters. It took us all afternoon and half the next morning to nail the racks back up. As we finished Mr. Feldman walked out of his office.

“
So, you did it? All right, now listen to me
—
I want the 939's stacked on top, the 820's next on down, and the louvers and glass on the bottom shelves, get it? Now, does everybody get it?
”

There wasn't any answer. The 939's were the heaviest fixtures—they were really heavy mothers—and he wanted them on top. He was the boss. We went about it. We stacked them up there, all that weight, and we stacked the light stuff on the bottom racks. Then we went back to work. Those racks held up the rest of the day and through the night. In the morning we began to hear creaking sounds. The racks were starting to go. The assembly line workers began to edge away, they were grinning. About ten minutes before the morning coffee break everything came down again. Mr. Feldman came running out of his office:

“
What the hell's going on here?
”

Feldman was trying to collect his insurance and go bankrupt at the same time. The next morning a dignified looking man came down from the Bank of America. He told us not to build any more racks. “Just stack that shit on the floor,” was the way he put it. His name was Jennings, Curtis Jennings. Feldman owed the Bank of America a lot of money and the Bank of America wanted its money back before the business went under. Jennings took over management of the company. He walked around watching everybody. He went through Feldman's books; he checked the locks and the windows and the security fence around the parking lot. He came up to me: “Don't use Sieberling Truck Lines any more. They had four thefts while running one of your shipments through Arizona and New Mexico. Any particular reason you been using those boys?” “No, no reason.” The agent from Sieberling had been slipping me ten cents for each five hundred pounds of freight shipped out.

Within three days Jennings fired a man who worked in the front office and replaced three men on the assembly line with three young Mexican girls willing to work for half the pay. He fired the janitor and, along with doing the shipping, had me driving the company truck on local deliveries.

I got my first paycheck and moved out of Jan's place and into an apartment of my own. When I came home one night, she had moved in with me. What the fuck, I told her, my land is your land. Shortly thereafter, we had our worst fight. She left and I got drunk for three days and three nights. When I sobered up I knew my job was gone. I never went back. I decided to clean up the apartment. I vacuumed the floors, scrubbed the window ledges, scoured the bathtub and sink, waxed the kitchen floor, killed all the spiders and roaches, emptied and washed the ashtrays, washed the dishes, scrubbed the kitchen sink, hung up clean towels and installed a new roll of toilet paper. I must be turning fag, I thought.

When Jan finally came home—a week later—she accused me of having had a woman here, because everything looked so clean. She acted very angry, but it was just a cover for her own guilt. I couldn't understand why I didn't get rid of her. She was compulsively unfaithful—she'd go off with anyone she met in a bar, and the lower and the dirtier he was the better she liked it. She was continually using our arguments to justify herself. I kept telling myself that all the women in the world weren't whores, just mine.

—
F
ACTOTUM

we came out of the bar

because we were out of money

but we had a couple of wine bottles

in the room.

it was about 4 in the afternoon

and we passed a fire station

and she started to go

crazy:

“a FIRE STATION! oh, I just love

FIRE engines, they're so red and

all! let's go in!”

I followed her on

in. “FIRE ENGINES!” she screamed

wobbling her big

ass.

she was already trying to climb into

one, pulling her skirt up to her

waist, trying to jacknife up into the

seat.

“here, here, lemme help ya!” a fireman ran

up.

another fireman walked up to

me: “our citizens are always welcome,”

he told

me.

the other guy was up in the seat with

her. “you got one of those big THINGS?”

she asked him. “oh, hahaha!, I mean one of

those big HELMETS!”

“I've got a big helmet too,” he told

her.

“oh, hahaha!”

“you play cards?” I asked
my

fireman. I had 43 cents and nothing but

time.

“come on in back,” he

said, “of course, we don't gamble.

it's against the

rules.”

“I understand,” I told

him.

I had run my 43 cents up to a

dollar ninety

when I saw her going upstairs with

her
fireman.

“he's gonna show me their sleeping

quarters,” she told

me.

“I understand,” I told

her.

when her fireman slid down the pole

ten minutes later

I nodded him

over.

“that'll be 5

dollars.”

“5 dollars for

that?”

“we wouldn't want a scandal, would

we? we both might lose our

jobs, of course, I'm not

working.”

he gave me the

5.

“sit down, you might get it

back.”

“whatcha playing?”

“blackjack.”

“gambling's against the