The Losers (23 page)

“You’re contemptible.”

“Of course I am.” Flood laughed. “We’re
all
contemptible. We all have these base, vile, disgusting little urges—revenge, hate, spite, malice. Each man’s soul is a seething sewer. I just bring it out into the open, that’s all. I take a certain pride in my disinterestedness, though.”

“In your
what?”

“That was for you, Raphael. I didn’t give a shit about that kid one way or the other. You’re the one who had a hard-on for him. Look upon me as an instrument of a vengeful God. The Archangel proposes, and Jake Flood disposes. Just be careful about the things you wish for while I’m around, though, because you’ll probably get exactly what you want.” His eyes were very bright now. “Admit it. Deep down in that part of your mind nobody likes to look into, you really enjoyed that, didn’t you?”

Raphael started to say something, but suddenly could not, because it was true. He
had
enjoyed it.

Flood saw his hesitation and laughed, a long, almost bell-like peal of pure mirth.

And then the mailman came, and the streets below exploded with people. Impatiently, they waited on the sidewalk for him and literally grabbed the checks out of his hands as he approached. As soon as they had the checks, they dashed to their cars and raced away in a frenzy, as if the world might suddenly run out of money before they could convert the checks into spendable cash. “Get in the car! Get in the car!” mothers screamed urgently at their children, and their men hovered closely, even anxiously, over the women who held, each in her own two tightly clenched hands, that ultimate reality in their lives—the welfare check. For those brief, ecstatic hours between the time when the checks arrived and the time when they all watched in anguish as the seemingly vast wealth dwindled down to the last few paltry dollars that were surplus, the women were supreme. The boyfriends who had beaten them and sworn at them, ridiculed and cheated on them, were suddenly docile, even fawning, in the presence of the awful power represented by the checks. As the day wore on and so much went for rent, so much for the light bill, and so much for payments on this or this or that, the faces of the men became more desperate. Mentally, each man watched that huge stack of tens and twenties melt away like frost in the sun, and since he knew that he could only wheedle a third or even a quarter of what was left, his eyes grew wide with near panic.

But first there was the orgy of shopping, of filling the house with food. An hour or two after the checks arrived, the cars began to return, clattering and smoking as always, but filled with boxes and sacks of groceries. The children screamed and squabbled and ran up and down the sidewalks almost hysterical with excitement. They gorged themselves on candy and potato chips and swilled soda pop as fast as they could drink it, knowing that what they could not eat or drink today would be lost forever.

And then, when the food was in and the money orders for the bills were all bought and safely in the mail, the men took their women inside and, each in his own fashion, cajoled a share of the loot. It was only then that the parties started.

“My God!” Flood said, watching. “It’s a circus down there. Does this happen every month?”

“Every month,” Raphael told him. “It’s Christmas and New Year’s Eve and the Fourth of July all rolled into one—and it happens on the first of every month.”

The all-powerful women emerged from their houses, contented and enormously satisfied that they had once again provided bountifully for their dependents. The scrimping and borrowing and hunger of the last week were forgotten in an orgy of generosity and open-handed benevolence. For the moment at least, they were all rich. “Let’s cruise around a bit,” Flood suggested. “What for?”

“Because you’re taking root in that chair. It’s unhealthy to sit in one spot for so long. Let’s away, my Angel, and behold the wonders of Welfare City on payday. Call it research if you like—an observation of the loser at play.”

As he almost always did, Raphael succumbed in the end to Flood’s badgering. It was not so much that he accepted his friend’s feeble excuses, but rather that he, too, felt the contagious excitement from the streets below. The thought of remaining stationary while so much was going on became unbearable under Flood’s prodding.

And so they cruised in Flood’s small red car, drifting slowly up and down the streets of shabby houses with junked cars sitting up on blocks in the yards and broken-down appliances and boxes of junk piled on the porches. The streets were alive with people, and they sat on porches and lawns drinking and laughing. Music blasted from a dozen radios and record players, and packs of kids on bicycles rode wildly up and down the streets.

“A good old-fashioned truant officer could have a ball today,” Flood observed.

“They don’t seem to pay that much attention in Spokane.”

“Sure. After all, how much education do you need to be able to sign a welfare check?”

They pulled up in front of a tavern on Broadway.

“Now what?” Raphael asked.

“Let’s have a beer and take a look at party time in the poor man’s social club.”

“Why not?” Raphael dug his crutches out from behind the seat and they went in.

The first thing that struck them was the noise. The place seethed with people, most of them already drunk and all of them shouting.

Flood found a small table near the corner, got Raphael seated, and then went to the bar for beer. “Loud, huh?” he said when he came back.

“You noticed.”

“What time do the fights start?” Raphael looked around. “Hard to say.”

An Indian shambled by their table with his mouth gaping open and a sappy look of bludgeoned drunkenness on his face.

“The old-timers were right,” Flood observed. “They can’t hold their liquor, can they?”

“He doesn’t seem much drunker than anybody else.”

“Really? I’d give him another five minutes before he passes out.”

“He could surprise you.”

“Let’s get up a pool on which way he falls. I’d bet on north—that’s the side of the tree the moss grows on.”

“What’s that got to do with it?”

“You know—child of nature, all that crap.”

“Why not south then—the way the geese fly? Or east to west—with the rotation of the earth? Or west to east—with the prevailing winds?”

“Interesting problem. There he goes.”

Raphael turned in his seat. The Indian had reeled against a wall and was sliding slowly to the floor, his eyes glazed.

“No bet,” Flood said. “The son of a bitch passed out vertically.”

An argument broke out at the pool table, and two drunken young men threatened each other with pool cues until they were separated.

Everyone was a big shot today, and loud arguments erupted about who was going to pay for the next round. The noise was stunning, and Raphael began to get a headache. “Had about enough?” he asked Flood.

“Let’s have one more.” Flood got up quickly and went back to the bar. As he turned, a glass in each hand, a tall black man with graying hair lurched into him, knocking one of the glasses to the floor.

“Hey, man,” the black man apologized quickly, “I’m sorry.” Flood’s eyes were flat and his expression cold.

“Let me buy you another.” “Forget it.”

“No, man—I mean, it was me that spilled it.”

“I said to forget it.” Flood deliberately turned his back on the man to return to the bar.

The black man’s eyes froze, and his face went stiff. He drew himself up as if about to say something, then looked around as if suddenly realizing how many whites were in the bar and where their sympathies would lie in the event of an argument. “Shit,” he muttered, and cautiously made his way to the door, his face still carrying that stiff, defensive expression.

Flood returned to the table and put down the two beers.

“You could have let him buy,” Raphael said.

“I don’t like niggers. I don’t like the way they look; I don’t like the way they smell; and I don’t like the way they’re trying to niggerize the whole country.”

“The man was only trying to be polite. You didn’t have to shit on him.”

“That’s what they’re
for,
Gabriel. The only reason they exist is to be shit on.”

Once again Raphael felt that strange shock that always came when Flood let the other name slip.

“Look around out there,” Flood went on, obviously unaware that he had called Raphael by the wrong name. “You’ve got a whole generation of white kids trying to wear Afros and speak in fluent ghetto. Something’s radically wrong when white kids knock themselves out trying to look and sound like niggers.”

“Ship ‘em all back to Africa, huh?”

Flood grinned at him.
“Gotcha!”

“Damon,” Raphael said in exasperation, “quit that.”

Flood laughed. “You’re still as innocent as ever, Raphael. You still believe everything anybody says to you. You ought to know me better than that by now.”

“May all your toenails fall out. Let’s get out of this rattrap. I’m starting to get a headache.”

“Right on.” Flood drained his glass.

They got up and made their way through the seething crowd of half-drunk people between them and the door.

Outside, the sun had gone down and the streetlights were just coming on. They got into Flood’s car and sat for a few moments, letting the silence wash over them.

“Great group,” Flood said.

“Letting off steam. They build up a lot of pressure during the course of a month.” “Doing what?”

“Living, Damon. Just living—and waiting for the next check.” Flood started his car, and they wound slowly through the streets. “Haven’t you had about enough of this sewer?” he asked finally. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Let’s find some other town. Let’s pack up and go on down to San Francisco—or Denver, maybe.” “What brought all that on?”

“The place is starting to irritate me, that’s all.” Flood’s voice was harsh, almost angry. “You can only take so much of a place like Spokane. It’s called Spokanitis. That’s when you get sick of Spokane.”

“I’m settled. I don’t feel like moving just yet.” “Okay, Raphael.” Flood’s voice was strangely light. “It was just a thought.”

“Look, Damon,” Raphael said seriously. “I appreciate your coming here and all. You’ve pulled me through some pretty rough times; but if the town bothers you all that much, maybe you ought to cut out. We can keep in touch. Maybe by the end of the summer I’ll want to try something new, but right now I’m just not ready to take on that much change. You can understand that.”

“Sure,” Flood said, his voice still light. “Forget I said anything.”

“When do you think you’ll be leaving?”

“Oh no.” Flood laughed. “I can stand it as long as you can.”

They pulled up in front of Raphael’s apartment.

Across the street the light was on in Tobe and Sam’s place, and

Flood looked speculatively at the house. “Let’s go see how the old boys are doing,” he suggested, and bounded out of the car before Raphael could answer.

Uncertain of what he was up to, Raphael crutched along behind him toward the shabby little house.

The two old men had made some effort to clean the place, and they themselves were clean for the first time since Raphael had known them. There was still caked dirt in the corners, but the floors had been mopped and the woodwork wiped down.

They had been playing cribbage at the table in the dining room, and their cups held coffee. They were a little embarrassed by company and stood around, not knowing exactly what to say. Finally Tobe offered coffee.

“Wait one,” Flood said quickly, and dashed out of the house again. He came back a moment later with a brown-bagged bottle of whiskey and set it down on the table. “Why don’t we all have a drink instead?” he suggested, his eyes very bright.

Tobe and Sam sat at the table, looking at the bottle with a terrible longing on their faces.

“What do you think, Sam?” Tobe asked hesitantly.

“I don’t know,” Sam said, still looking at the bottle. “Maybe one won’t hurt.”

“I’ll get some glasses.” Tobe got up quickly.

In a fury, almost sick with rage, Raphael stood up, took his crutches, and stumped out of the house. Blindly, he went down the steps, jabbing down hard with the tips of his crutches. For a moment he actually hated Flood.

On the corner, in the pale glow of the streetlight, Patch stood watching him as he came out of the house. Then, after a moment when they had looked wordlessly at each other, he turned and went on silent feet out of the light and into the darkness, and then he was gone.

iii

Flood was in a foul humor when he came by a few days later, and he’d only been at Raphael’s apartment for a few minutes before they were snapping at each other.

“Maybe!”
Flood said. “Don’t be so goddamn wishy-washy. Give me a date—some kind of approximation.”

“I don’t
know.
I told you before I’m just not ready for that kind of change yet. If this place bothers you so much, go ahead and take off.”

“How can you stand this town? There’s absolutely nothing to do here.”

“All right.” Raphael said it flatly. “I’m going to explain this once more. Maybe you’ll listen this time. I’ve got some pretty damned big adjustments to make, and this is a good place to make them. The fact that there’s nothing to do makes it all the better.”

“Come
on.
You’re fine. You’re not going to adjust by just sitting still.”

“I’m not sitting still. I’m in therapy. I’m still learning how to walk, and you want to drag me off to a town that’s wall-to-wall hills. Have you got any idea how far I’d bounce if I happened to fall down in San Francisco?” It was the first time either of them had directly mentioned Raphael’s injury, and it made him uncomfortable. It also made him angry that it was finally necessary. It was because of the anger that he went on. “That’s the one thing you just can’t understand, Damon—falling down. If
you
trip or stumble, you can catch yourself. I can’t. And even if you
do
happen to fall, you can get up again. I can’t. Once I’m down, I’m
down,
baby—until somebody comes along and helps me get back up again. I can’t even bend over to pick up my crutches. I have nightmares about it. I fall down in the street, and people just keep on walking around me. Have you got the faintest idea how degrading it is to have to ask somebody to help you get up? I have to lie there and
beg
strangers for help.”