South Street (29 page)

“We’re all goddamn somethin’ or others,” Jake said.

“Yeah,” said Leo. “Sounds like I’m a goddamn salad.”

Big Betsy waddled unsteadily toward the door, stopped, and stared out at the street. Leo extinguished the lights. Big Betsy turned ponderously, facing the darkness. “Goddamn, Jake,” Big Betsy said, “I can remember when you was fuckin’ handsome.” She turned again and waddled out.

“Happy Saturday, Leo,” Jake said, draining his glass.

Black sky hanging above him, black water flowing below, Brown sat in darkness on the South Street Bridge, armed with three six-packs of sixteen-ounce cans. He sat near one of the little bastions inserted in the bridge’s design by some romantic architect in an age when lovers strolled and paused to look down at a shining river. Brown was no strolling lover, and the Schuylkill was no lover’s inspiration. Or a poet’s, either. Brown had come looking for inspiration; now he sat working through the sixes, crushing the thin cans in his hand as he emptied them, tossing them outward over the railing. He could not hear them slap the water; that sound was hidden in the background of other sounds—tiny ones nearby, loud ones far away—that merged into a single low moan. Brown listened through the persistent hum for the noise of crushed aluminum can hitting chemical river, heard nothing but the city’s moanings, and opened another can.

It was Saturday, late, almost Sunday, and the other westbound bridges were laden with traffic. South Street’s bridge knew only the infrequent passing of the forty bus, an occasional cab, an occasional car.

It was after one when Brown finished the last beer, crushed the can, tossed it over the railing. He rose, stretching, groaning like an old man. The lights of the refineries swam before his eyes for a moment, then subsided into a steady pulsation in rhythm with Brown’s heartbeat. Brown’s mind floated somewhere above him, giving precise instructions to a body that refused to respond precisely. Brown turned himself with great care, put his feet in low gear, and steered himself down off the bridge. In the shadows he paused to relieve the awesome pressure building up in his bladder. The stream of urine wandered; Brown, overcorrecting, had to do some fancy footwork to keep his shoes dry. He nearly fell, stumbled back, and the errant stream baptized a Volkswagen from bumper to bumper. Brown regained his balance and his composure, completed his mission, headed home.

South Street was restless, as if reluctant to admit that Saturday was over, that Sunday was here, that Monday was sure to follow. Brown walked downtown at what he thought was a good rate of speed, stumbling along like an elderly turtle paralyzed on one side, catching himself against buildings to keep from falling. The three-way intersection of Grays Ferry, Twenty-third, and South presented a difficult problem: there were no walls to fall against for the immense distance of thirty yards. Brown leaned against a car, after checking carefully to make certain it was parked, and considered. It was a question, Brown decided, of inertia and geometry. He had detected a tendency of his feet to steer to the right, and he would therefore have to point himself far enough out into the middle of the street so that when he had traversed the width of the intersection, he would be on the sidewalk on the far side with a wall handy to collapse against. Brown was pleased with his undiminished capacity for logical thinking. He reviewed his reasoning, checking for possible flaws, overlooked elements. Finding none, he stumbled out into the middle of South Street just as a large automobile came roaring down off the bridge. The driver hit the horn and the brakes at the same time. Brown heard the horn, felt the headlights coming toward him, and played a remarkable game of chicken, not flinching or changing course in the slightest as the heavy car swerved past him. “Watch where you’re goin’!” the driver shouted.

“Eat shit,” Brown retorted amiably, just before a relay closed in his brain and he realized what had almost happened to him. Brown staggered weakly over to the cracked watering trough and vomited into the mass of dead leaves and paper scraps that clogged it. When he straightened up, he was sober enough to realize how drunk he was. Brown considered the extent of his inebriation and was duly awed.

He stumbled out of the intersection and along South Street until he reached the alley beside Lightnin’ Ed’s Bar and Grill. Brown entered the alley and sat down on a garbage can to collect his thoughts. From the deeper recesses of the darkness came a sudden sharp squalling sound made by quarreling cats, a scratching of claws on cobbles, then quiet. Brown spoke to himself, trying to draw his scattered thoughts together. He peered at himself from outside, saw himself being drawn and quartered to the four corners of the earth, tried to pull it all back to one spot, a garbage-choked alley in a smog-smothered city. He closed his eyes, and something twisted in his mind. He got up and staggered against a wall, pushed the wall away and tumbled into a garbage can. Rotting refuse accepted him, garbage aroma rose and enfolded him, bacon grease and banana peels clung to him. He shoved himself out of the garbage, left the alley in a desperate, shambling run, banging back and forth between the buildings on either side. He burst out onto South Street, turned left, ran toward the bridge. His steps were short, choppy, and he forgot to breathe for the first block, so that as he pounded up the ramp onto the bridge he was gasping. He ran across the bridge, not stopping until he reached the traffic light at Thirty-third Street. The light was red. Brown tried to stop, stumbled, and fell into the gutter.

He lay there for a few moments, then pushed himself up and sat on the curb. Something smelled terrible and he realized that it was him. He grunted in disgust, got to his feet, looked around him. He sighed, gritted his teeth, and headed back across the bridge, walking carefully, like an eighty-year-old man aware of his brittle bones. He was nearly sober as he walked down the ramp onto South Street. He moved along close to the walls, clinging to the shadows, skulking like a robber. He sniffed and increased his pace, trying to outrun the smell of himself. He reached the door beside the gaping storefront, opened it, stepped into the darkness. The smell already in the stairway mingled with the offensive odor of Brown, and he held his breath as he started up the stairs. From above him came a noise like the scrabbling of nails on wood. Brown stopped, flattened himself against the wall, his heart pounding. There was a tingling on the patch of skin just below his breastbone as he anticipated the rusty blade of some turkey-crazed junkie sliding home. Brown forced himself to breathe quietly, wasting no time cursing himself for drunkenness, lack of caution. The scrabbling sound came again: short, harsh, fingernails on wood. Rats. Brown relaxed, took a step. “Who’s that?” demanded a voice out of the darkness. Brown slammed himself back against the wall, listening. It had been a woman’s voice. Brown eased down along the wall into a crouch, leaned forward onto the balls of his feet, turned his face into the darkness. He waited for his eyes to adjust. He calmed himself. He listened. “Who’s that?” the woman said again. She was on the right side of the stairs, Brown decided. He eased over against the left wall. “Who is that down there?” The woman’s voice was a little ragged now; the silence was getting to her. Brown took a deep breath, preparing for a low charge. “Who
is
that?”

“Who’s that?” Brown whispered. Silence from the darkness. A car hissed by on the street.

“Who’s
that
?” the woman’s voice demanded.

“Yeah,” said a third voice, male. “Who dat who say who dat when she say who dat?” The third voice broke into a heavy, drunken laugh which turned into an anguished croak as Brown, his nerves gone, came rumbling up the stairs, aiming for the solar plexus of the third voice. Brown’s aim was perfect, and his head sank into a soft belly. A retching sound, a sudden wetness, an increased stench combined to inform Brown that the third voice was attached to a stomach that had just spewed all over his back. Brown heard somebody gasping for breath. Brown did not gasp for breath; he tried to avoid breathing altogether. Light flared, and Brown looked up into the flame from a cigarette lighter. He blinked. As his eyes adjusted he noticed that the lighter was an expensive one, held by a slim, dark manicured hand. The light moved toward him, and Brown leaped a few steps up above the landing. “Who the hell
is
that?” Brown shouted.

“We been through that, ain’t we?”

Brown cursed, grabbed the lighter, burning his hand in the process. He wrestled it away, then snapped it on again. “Yeah, we been through it before, an’ we gonna keep on goin’ through it. Now who the fuck are you?” He shoved the lighter toward her face, stared at her. She looked back at him calmly. The vomit soaking through the back of Brown’s shirt made him slightly impatient; he shot out his other hand and grasped her above the elbow. “What the hell are you doin’ here?”

She looked down at his hand, smiled slightly. “Ma name’s Vanessa. An’ I was tryin’ to haul this piece a drunk meat on home, until the goddamn marines landed. Or is it Captain Midnight?” She raised her eyes and glared at him. Brown let go of her arm. “Ain’t none a your damn business anyways.”

“You his wife?”

“Him?” Rayburn moaned, clutched his stomach, tried to sit up.

“Yeah,” Brown said. “Him.”

“What would I want with a piece a cat shit like that?”

“Yeah, well,” Brown said sourly. “All right, let’s get him inside.”

“I ain’t got no key. I was lookin’ through his pockets when the fuckin’ cavalry charged.”

“Did you find the key?” Brown snapped.

“Nope.”

“Well,” Brown said, “if he ain’t got no key, maybe there ain’t no key.” He stepped down onto the landing, tried the door. It swung open.

“You pretty smart, Stonewall,” Vanessa said.

Brown glared at her. She smiled innocently. Brown bent over Rayburn. “Hey, man. Can you walk?”

“Walk?” muttered Rayburn. “Hell yeah, I can walk. I can fuckin’ fly. I was in the fuckin’ air force. Ask anybody. I’ma fly me right outa here, soon as I gets maself together.”

“Lemme give you a hand,” Brown said. He thrust his hands beneath Rayburn’s armpits and lifted, sliding his back up along the wall.

“Whee!” Rayburn said, “I’m flyin’.”

“Yeah,” Brown grunted. “Now let’s see can you walk.”

“Sure I can walk. Man can fly, he sure can walk,” Rayburn said. He took two unsteady steps, then collapsed on the landing in a loose, sour-smelling heap. “Tole you I could walk.”

Vanessa snorted. Brown glared at her, looked at Rayburn, sighed. “Okay, baby. You gonna get that airlift.” He grunted, hauled Rayburn to his feet, pulled him onto his shoulder, straightened.

“My, ain’t we strong!” said Vanessa.

“Shut up,” Brown said. He carried Rayburn through the door. Vanessa trailed along behind. “Which way’s the bedroom?” Brown said.

“How the hell would I know?” Vanessa snapped. “You think I’d go to bed with that?”

“I don’t care if you screw squirrels, this sucker’s heavy, an’ I can’t be standin’ around here all’ night.” Brown turned carefully so that Rayburn’s dangling arms and legs and head wouldn’t hit anything too hard. He spotted the dim outline of a doorway, headed for it. Vanessa started to follow him through but stopped at the sound of crashing pots and pans and shattering crockery.

“Oww,” roared Rayburn.

“Shit,” said Brown.

“That mattress must be a killer,” Vanessa called. Rayburn’s legs reappeared as Brown backed out. “Oh,” said Vanessa, “ain’t that the bedroom?”

“No, it ain’t the fuckin’ bedroom,” Brown snarled. “Why don’t you pretend you’re useful an’ find the goddamn light?”

Vanessa moved away. “I done crashed,” Rayburn said.

The lights came on, illuminating the littered living-room floor, the greasy furniture, the peeling walls. “God,” muttered Vanessa.

Brown headed into the bedroom and deposited Rayburn on the bed. He held his breath while he pulled off Rayburn’s clothes, not being too careful about buttons. He dropped the clothes on the floor, pulled the sheet over Rayburn, who snored his appreciation, rolled over, and farted his thanks. Brown backed away. “He do stink, don’t he?” said Vanessa from the doorway.

“He do this often?” Brown said.

“Only on George Wallace’s birthday an’ when his wife leaves him,” Vanessa said. Brown sniffed, moved past her. Vanessa looked at Rayburn. “He’s just a sad old muthafucka. Ain’t got no harm in him. Ain’t got no room for harm, he’s too full a shit. He stinks.” She whirled and looked at Brown. “You stink too.”

Brown ignored that. “You gonna stay here with him?”

“What for?” Vanessa snapped.

Brown looked her up and down. “There’s some folks ain’t above friskin’ dead men,” Brown said.

“I see. Meanin’ there’s some people who likes to roll drunks.”

Brown shrugged, turned away, headed for the door. Vanessa came after him, stumbling through the littered living room as Brown turned off the light and stepped out onto the landing. In the darkness she ran into the back of him. “Yuk!”

“Watch where you’re goin’,” Brown said, starting up the darkened staircase.

“Hey,” said Vanessa. “Where you goin’?”

“Home,” Brown said.

“You live up there?”

“No, I’m climbin’ the steps for exercise. Good night.” At the top of the steps a door slammed, leaving Vanessa in darkness.

South Street slumbered in the night, black and quiet, heat-softened tar firming in the growing cool as the nighttime darkness flowed on toward dawn. Yellow streetlamps dripped gold light that pooled at the bases of rotting poles, buildings lounged against the sky, gap-tooth rows like an old man’s mouth—ceramic fillings and shocking breath. South Street slept in a thousand snores that rumbled out of open windows, tiptoed from behind closed doors, lurked around the alley mouths, in the sleepy sounds of pleasure and pain, banging bedsprings, glugging drains. In the dim recesses of Lightnin’ Ed’s, Jake snored and snorted and clutched his gut, twisting on the rotten canvas of Leo’s army-surplus cot. Leroy Briggs, the muscle man, sweated his substance into the night, forcing one more heroic spasm out of aching lungs and emptied loins to satisfy his ladylove, who tugged and clutched and screamed for more. South Street tied the city’s rivers like an iron bracelet or a wedding band, uniting the waters, sewer to sewer, before they met at the city’s edge. In their apartment near the Schuylkill, Brother and Mrs. Fletcher slept, holding hands beneath the sheet. South Street, once a youthful strumpet, now old and ugly, beyond the days when lonely men would buy her body, accepted Big Betsy’s rancid sweat, while blocks away, on the other side of the river that somehow drew a line, a woman stood on a balcony, looking out at the sleeping city—streets, rivers, bridges—and traced the row of yellow lights amidst the white of the vapor lamps. That was South Street. The hippest street in town. She thought of Brown. Rayburn Wallace turned and moaned, flopped on his back on the grimy sheet, threw out an arm, called a name. No one answered. South Street slept.