The Pinch (21 page)

“But that business of gripping the wire between her great and second toe …”

“Definitely out. We’ll have to buy her a nice pair of buffalo hide slippers …”

“… and slather the soles with molasses to limit the torque.”

When the circus cast off from the Memphis levee to make for more southerly ports, almost no one in the Pinch was aware that La Funambula had gone with it. For them, anyone who strayed beyond the neighborhood was instantly lost to memory. Of course the Rosens knew she was gone, Mr. Rosen attempting to comfort his wife as she shed a torrent of tears over the nearly illiterate scrawl of Jenny’s note. (The note, with its clumsy profession of gratitude, was so damp from the combined tears of Mrs. Rosen and her foster daughter that it was later pinned pennant-wise to the highwire clothesline to dry.) Pinchas Pin was also aware of her departure, since it was Jenny who’d informed him—cradling his inconsolable head in her lap before saying good-bye—that his Katie’s suffering was finally at an end. But Muni Pinsker, in the fever dream of his chronicling, remained unmindful of her absence while dedicating every word he wrote to his precious girl.

I was carrying away a stack of books that comprised the better part of Avrom’s Judaica collection, when his lizardy eyelids snapped open.

“It makes you feel good that you steal from an old man?”

“I’m borrowing them,” I said, slightly chagrined. But Avrom’s income came mostly from Social Security and the odd reparation from Germany; from his shop with its phantom clientele he got bubkes. Besides, I knew I had only to ask, but theft lent my relation to the books an element of intrigue.

Avrom squinted over his thick lenses in an effort to make out the titles. “What are you, becoming a yeshiva bocher?” How to tell him that perusing
The Pinch
meant resorting to no end of reference materials? That becoming Muni Pinsker’s ideal reader involved the assimilation of a whole history and culture. “Maybe you should go instead in synagogue,” he suggested, this from a skeptic who cursed God at every turn.

“I went already,” I said (I was starting to sound like him). “They confirmed me at sixteen; I thought I was a Methodist.”

Avrom studied me with rheumy eyes that seemed to be struggling to focus. Was I starting to disappear? “I’m laughing,” he said, though he showed no signs of it. He hawked some phlegm into the coffee tin on his desk and peered inside to examine its contents.

I set down the stack of books, raising dust from the floor I’d neglected to sweep. “Avrom,” I was suddenly moved to confess, “I don’t hardly seem to live here anymore. It’s like I learned another language and now I’m forgetting my mother tongue.”

“‘Thou art greatly despised,’” he replied. “Obadiah chapter one, verse two: ‘for Rome possesses neither script nor tongue.’” “Come again?” I asked, when he fairly barked at me,
“Here
you didn’t never live.” He endeavored to raise himself upright amid the cushions that buttressed his rump. “Poor pisher”—saliva sprayed from his lips—“the lostest of the lost generation.”

“That one was before my time,” I countered, sorry to have made myself vulnerable to the old man. But he wasn’t finished.

“What do you want I should say to you? I should give to you wisdom like I’m some lamed vovnik? I’m the prophet Elijah in disguise? Okay: for virility, mix with ground kohl a seven-hued scorpion; against a succubus say, ‘Bar tit, bar tamei, bar tina, kashmaggaz …’” Then, with gnashing of dentures, “Tahkeh, from my own life I didn’t learn nothing!”

I’d never known him to get so worked up. “Why are you being such a”—what was the Yiddish for “bastard”?—“momzer?”

“Because,” he said, still exercised, squeezing his beard like a sponge; a molasses-like tear formed at its tip and plopped onto his desk, “because, Reb Pinocchio, you got in your life no strings attached, you can go where you want, even in Paradise. Me, I got only memories that by them I’m pinned in this farshtunkener chair.”

His gouged face showed a ferocity that dared me to contradict him, and for a moment we were deadlocked in our feelings of mutual inadequacy. Then, defeated by his stare, I hung my head and made a mumbled effort to change the subject; I had to clear my throat to hear myself speak. “Are there other copies of it,
The Pinch
?” It was a question I’d been meaning to put to him for a while. There was after all no copyright, no Library of Congress number; I knew nothing of its provenance. Maybe a fellowship of readers were plodding even now through Muni’s tangled narrative, encountering one another in and out of time.

Avrom sighed as if heaving a demon from his pigeon breast and reverted to his usual bemusement. It was, he attested, the one and only volume. “The meshuggener Tyrone that he gave me for safekeeping the manuscript. Then I gave with his cockeyed pictures to Shendeldecker the printer when they locked him up.”

“So you were responsible for its printing?”

He didn’t say no.

“But you said you never read it?”

“I opened,” Avrom shrugged, his eyebrows like caterpillars rampant. “It’s the same story that I heard it already from the horse’s mouth, or anyway the nephew of the horse. I heard in the lager and wondered can you get to North Main Street from here. When I arrived, is mostly gone with the wind, the street. It’s anyhow better I should reside here in this charming dacha.”

He looked out through the glass door where a garbage striker with a sandwich board was passing.

“Avrom,” I asked, ignoring his mood—as what could I do about it anyway?—“what became of Muni Pinsker?”

He turned back to me and belched softly, made a face at the ill wind he’d expelled. “Happened what always happens: he died there like everybody else. Mr. Hanover that he died there. Mr. Elster died there. Mr. and Mrs. Sebranig died over there. Everybody stayed and they died there. Didn’t nobody just run away.”

That night I’m involved in a business transaction at the back of the bar when the heat burst through the front door. They were wearing duty jackets and graven expressions, standard issue guts lapping over belts that drooped in turn from sidearms, radios, handcuffs, and pepper spray. For a few moments they seemed implausible, so out of place was their martial presence amid that ethereal crowd. Then the cold facts kicked in and I recalled that Lamar, so generous with his illicit gifts, had never bothered to secure a proper beer license for the 348. Moreover, the barroom was dense with muggle smoke and cellophane packets of legend drugs, a quantity of which could be found on my person. I remembered that I was a felon, a concept I’d never quite gotten my head around. Outlaw, yes, but felon?

I expected the cops to begin arresting every acid eater and underage drinker in sight. But instead, parting the patrons like tall grass, they made straight for my landlord, spruce in his plantation attire, his insouciant posture advertising his proprietorship. They yanked him out of his chair and read him his rights. He received the handcuffs as if he were being attended by valets, while an unripe nymph draped his coat over his shoulders like an opera cape. As the cops frog-marched him toward the door, I turned tail and made for the rear of the premises. If Lamar was busted, wouldn’t his associate be next in line? With the draft hanging over my head and now the threat of police, it occurred to me I was a desperate character. I ducked into the musty storeroom at the back of the bar, which contained a pyramid of aluminum kegs and an oxidized toilet from a bygone era. Scrambling up the kegs—some of which rolled from under me to trip up imagined pursuers—I reached for the narrow casement window, yanked the rusty latch, and threw open the sash as far as it would go; then I slithered through the casement, tumbling headfirst into a paved backyard.

Beyond the brick wall was a coffee factory, its lights on and aromas emanating as they hadn’t for half a century. Next door the sheitel-wigged Hattie Zipper stood on an upstairs landing behind her apartment airing out a featherbed; she was exchanging gossip with Tillie Alperin in the window of the neighboring building, brushing periwinkles from her daughter’s tawny hair. From the bare branch of a chinaberry tree a creature with shaggy flanks and hooves (which I recognized from my reading as a millinery demon, a kapelyushnikl) hung by its knobby knees. A steamboat sounded its whistle, and a stringed instrument from somewhere nearby imitated its plangent moan. I could have hidden there circa 1900 in perpetuity, I thought, safe from cops and universal conscription. From where I stood, though, I could barely even remember Rachel’s face—or rather, I could cherish the memory of her face from afar with a poignant longing. But was Lenny Sklarew some craven pitsvinik who lived on unrequited passions? Well, maybe. But touching the past, for all its allure, tonight made me want even more the solid portion that only my own place in time could provide. Ashamed of myself for hesitating, I climbed the wall and trotted along a back alley as far as Poplar Avenue. Still afraid to return to my apartment, however, I boarded a trolley and rode it until it dissolved into thin air, leaving me to walk the rest of the way to the midtown refuge of Beatnik Manor.

The house was flush as usual with “the mad ones, who never yawn or say a commonplace thing but burn like roman candles,” at least those whose flames hadn’t been snuffed out already by cynicism and substance abuse. A few of the Psychopimps were sitting around the parlor along with their customary hangers-on—some of whom shuffled in place to unheard music or contributed with colored markers to the kaleidoscopic walls. Hunkered among them was a small contingent of black brothers, the tag
Invaders
spray-painted in Day-Glo across the backs of their leather jackets. Elder Lincoln was holding forth from a rocker, his acoustic violin propped upright on his knee.

“My grandmama Abishag, she done come one time upon a lynched man after the mob have departed,” employing the folk speech he reserved for storytelling. “Not a soul even standin’ guard. The victim he was a old feller, a fiddler by the look of him ’cause his broken instrument have been hung round his broken neck. Got also no eyes lef’ in his hade. See, my grandmama didn’t have no chirren and her husband’s long gone, so she look bofe ways and unbutton the hung man’s fly to see do the legend be true. Then she look round, hitch up her skirt, ain’t nothin’ but a ol’ nation sack, and scoot her booty smack up against his Johnson erectus. Tha’s how my daddy that I didn’t never know got born and how I come by my musical aptitude.”

He grinned saucily as the hippies groaned, having perhaps heard this one before. The brothers, younger than the general run of freaks in the room, voiced their annoyance at such frivolous smoke. One of them, a razor part in his bushy ’fro, muttered, “Niggah, that’s fucked up,” while another, wearing a baseball cap with the bill turned sideways, said, “Yo, Elder, you down with us or what?”

Elder cocked his head in puzzlement, feigned or otherwise.

Then the third Invader, who commanded a certain air of authority (by virtue of his aboriginal brow?), said, “Bro, you gon’ be our podnah in crime?” It had the ring of a rehearsed request.

“Ezackly what’s on y’all’s mind?”

The beetle brow shifted his sallow eyes to and fro. “It ain’t for the ears of all these zebras.”

“These zebras are my friends, Sweet Weeyum,” submitted Elder.

Sweet Weeyum jutted his lower lip till it matched in protrusion his overarching brow. Still clearly suspicious, he nevertheless relaxed his guard enough to get down to cases. He spoke frankly, even boastfully, about sabotage, offhandedly alluding to items such as peashooters and Molotov cocktails.

The tension that permeated the room brought Ira Kisco to his feet. “Elder,” he asked, “what you doing listening to these punks?” His voice wavered between accusatory and apologetic.

Elder frowned. “These punks are my brethren.”

Ira hung his head in momentary surrender, then raised it. “What about the movement, man?” One of the Invaders wondered aloud what did a mothafuckin’ Viking know of “the
movement
”? He spoke the words with a biting sarcasm, but while perhaps a touch embarrassed by his Nordic features, Ira persisted all the same. “Remember nonviolent civil disobedience? Gandhi and King and all that?”

At the latter name Sweet Weeyum remarked truculently, “Doctah Kang ain’t nothin’ but the president’s house niggah. The man done had his day.”

Ira forced a laugh and rested his case, but in the absence of a similarly dismissive response from Elder he left the room. He was followed soon after by a broad-toothed Cholly Jolly in his six-gallon hat, pumping his fist and shouting an ironic “Black power!” The remaining hippies, their spans of attention spent, fell to gazing at the roiling bubbles inside a glass bong.

Elder continued rocking thoughtfully as he gave ear to the Invaders stating their insurrectionary objectives. Their spokesman, Sweet Weeyum, had begun to list specific targets, businesses run by councilmen who’d been especially vocal in their opposition to the strike; perhaps even the councilmen themselves. At one point Elder noticed that I was still lingering at the edge of their conversation. Actually, I was fascinated, not so much by the substance of their parley as by Elder’s indulgence of it. A gifted young black man who moved with relative impunity between both sides of the color line, Elder Lincoln was much admired by those who didn’t deem him a traitor to his race. (“Oreo” was the word sometimes bruited about.) As a consequence, he was torn between two cultures, and being more or less in the same boat myself, I couldn’t help but be intrigued by the guy.

“Yo, monkey man,” Elder was suddenly addressing me, less hospitably than I was used to. “Can we hep you?”

Trying to hide my hurt feelings, I replied, “I ain’t no ear hustler, know what I’m sayin’, but y’all do be talkin’ some off-da-hinges drama. Copacetee, my brothas,” I assured them, rising from the ash-strewn carpet. “Holla back atcha boy Lenny now and then.” And having exhausted all the street jargon I knew, I straggled out of the parlor to the tune of nasal sniggering behind me.

In the kitchen assorted Psychopimps and their camp followers were seated round a square table solemnly passing slab bottles and spliffs. “The cops raided the 348,” I announced in my capacity as messenger from the world at large—though it came to me my more compelling message was from another world altogether. “They arrested Lamar Fontaine,” I added, mentioning also that I was on the lam, but that wasn’t heard due to the rumblings of general solicitude. Their concern, however, seemed not so much for the bar or its proprietor as for the ruptured chemical pipeline between North Main Street and the manor.