The Royal Family (123 page)

Knock it off, said Tyler.

But seriously.

Oh, probably when I come across something like a staged accident. All the sudden, nothing adds up, and so somebody must be bullshitting. You just get to know people. You go back to the attorney and say, hey look, this client’s lying to you.

Tyler looked in the mirror and said: I’m nothing. I’m a phony. I want to be something real like her. Help me, please. Help me, help me. I’ll give up everything.

It now seemed to him that Smooth was correct, and his love for Irene had never been genuine, that had she been alive, unmarried and interested in him, he would not even necessarily have been drawn to her, although at the same time he was capable of doubting that supposition, for his heart lunged toward her in odd surges like a compass needle in a magnetic storm—what if it had all been one of those impermanent distractions falsely dignified as “escapes”? The terrible thing was that here had been no escape then or now. Love meant nothing, solved nothing, being but a garment of hypocrisy or desperation thrown over naked solitude. He awoke anxious. Did life have no purpose? Or had he merely failed to discover that purpose? What if he never found it, or, worse yet, learned it too late, as he lay dying?

Hoping for work, he went out to the beach while Irene snored and drooled. An hour later he ascended the carpeted stairs and approached his answering machine, knowing that the round red eye would not wink at him, shocked to hear himself muttering aloud: Please, please, please. —No one had called. —He said to himself:
It’s not gonna happen. It’s not gonna happen.
—He said it like a mantra. He was trying to convince himself not to expect anything ever again. He wanted to die. He wanted to be dead.
It’s not gonna happen.
He fell down onto his bed without even taking his shoes off, and he wept. He dreamed that he was with Irene. When he awoke, his eyes were swollen, aching and wet.
He masturbated, imagining that his tongue was inside Irene’s cunt and that he was giving her happiness.

Suddenly it occurred to him that he might not have gazed carefully enough at the red light on his answering machine. What if the battery were weak? He went and studied it again, but it was dark. He pushed the replay just in case, and heard silence, followed by a fatuous beep.

He drove to the Tenderloin, taking what John would have referred to as the scenic route on that hot day when Chinatown smelled like barbequed pork, urine and fresh oranges: He drove past the Sam Wong Hotel, then turned into the shade of Bow Bow Cocktails and the Hop Yick Meat Market. In a window, tongs moved barbequed duck legs. Then came a produce market, proudly showing off its cherries which resembled iridescent pink eyeballs. He turned down Powell Street in the direction of Pine, with the deep valley of the Tenderloin lying ahead. Celia bought faux jewelry somewhere around here. Then his way went down and down and down. Traversing the northern border of the Tenderloin, he followed Geary Street west, as if he were searching for the Queen as in the old days. Geary and Taylor was Walgreens and news, cafes and delis. Then it became harder at the Hob Nob bar, but Wing Fat Travel and Tomiko’s Beauty Saloon reminded him that the Tenderloin was much softer than it used to be even five years earlier, let alone fifteen. So it went, right to Polk Street, where Sophia Spa and Adult Video reminded him of the existence of nude celebrities. Down that cold grey slope of Polk Street was a motor lodge outside which the tall man stood bloody-eyed and smelly, trying to sell
Street News
to tourists. Tyler waved to him and then drove aimlessly for hours. He was killing time to avoid killing himself. —One of the moves we make at Eight-Fifty Bryant, another weary public defender had told him year ago, is what we call a convenience move. If you’re already serving life for one crime, why waste everyone’s time and money trying the guy on another charge? Shuffle some papers. If the other verdict is overturned, then you can always bring the guy up for trial. —But Tyler was shuffling his own papers now, driving uselessly round and round and round. As night fell he was rolling up Columbus where he saw a long restaurant with many people at many tables all sitting behind glass; he perceived a woman’s bluejeaned buttocks and blonde hair at a bank machine, then cars cold and fishy in the night, all framed by a string of lights. A red Chinese sign dwelled upon a white wall. Then he drove to the wharf, in downslop-ing smooth silence. The bright boiled-crab red neon sign of the Safeway directed him onward toward a multi-tier parking garage which was open and lit like those “pretty” Roman ruins. It was foggy in Cow Hollow, and foggy going down Gough Street. When he crossed Jackson, a yellow light winked at him like a friend, and so he let himself coast back into the Tenderloin again.

On Geary and Jones, the Nazareth Hotel, he was happy to learn, was
NOW RENTING.
Chocolate was strutting up Eddy Street in a jet black raincoat, swishing a riding crop made of a broken-off car antenna.

See that bitch? she said, strung out on an unknown drug, pointing at nothing. I did twelve months on account of that bitch ’cause some white lady said I looked like her. Can’t she see? I dunno. She drinks too many sodas.

Is that right, said Tyler.

You think I’m out to lunch, don’t you? You think I’m crazy like Mary. You know, you have your females and you have your
deep thought
females. I’m just different. I wanna climb trees and help build the treehouse.

I get it.

Henry, can you lend me five dollars? I need to fix so bad I’m gonna puke. Just five, Henry. Just this once.

What did the Queen say?

I’m afraid to ask her.

Why’s that?

’Cause I done asked her too many times awready.

Where is she now?

You wanna date her?

Sure.

Why not me, Henry? I got a pussy, too. Maj’ll never find out. You can pay me twenty an’ I’ll give you a nice flatback. I give real good head. I bet I can give better head than Maj. Please.

You love her, Chocolate?

More than anybody in the world, definitely including you. But love is love an’ business is
business.

At least you’re honest, he laughed, giving her four ones, which was all the cash he had left.

You don’t love her as much as you used to, the whore accused. All the time your lips be mumblin’
Irene, Irene.

Cut it out.

Hey. I’m getting fifty bucks a shot from that guy over there. If you gimme thirty I’ll give you better than I give him.

All right, Chocolate, he said, not really listening. I’ve got to find Maj now.

She’s sleepin’, Henry. Half a black down, inside that junked car.

Nudging him, she pulled down her shorts to show him her blackish, raw-scratched crotch.

Thanks, he said, walking on. She slowly and disconsolately followed. Tonight or tomorrow would be the end, he believed.
Why has the LORD pronounced all this great evil against us? What is our iniquity? . . . Because your fathers have forsaken me, says the LORD, and have gone after other gods.
His face was as dark grey as the Tenderloin streets at night with the pale, slotted cliffs shimmering above them, the darkness lit up with whores’ brassieres which shone like globs of glowworms. He tasted tears in his mouth.

Justin, what’s happening? he said.

Just kickin’ back with our Queen, the tall man said, leaning wearily with his hands in the pockets of his bright new bluejeans. Just stealin’ some nightshade.

Ah, said Tyler wisely, picking his teeth. Does your leg hurt?

It
goddamn
hurts. You packin’?

Not tonight.

That’s what
she
said.

Why, you old
misogynist!

No, I do not know where Domino is at. Why ain’t you packin’?

I sold my gun, Tyler explained. Needed to pay some expenses.

Then you be a worthless mother. Some gangstas popped a cap at me, but they missed. I wanna track ’em down, ex ’em out . . .

That’s life in our set, muttered Chocolate sarcastically.

You talkin’ smack to me, girl? I said, you givin’ me static?

Oh, brother, said Tyler. Where’s Maj?

Why? Wanna turn her out? Wanna pimp her out?

Something like that, he sighed.

She’s takin’ Sapphire to the emergency room, Chocolate said. Comin’ back pretty soon, maybe about one two three hours . . .

What’s wrong?

Just one of her fits. She bit her tongue pretty bad, that’s all . . . And I been feelin’ poorly, too. I had a fever of a hundred an’ four degrees an’ they wanted to call the emergency room but I said what the hell ’cause if I kick the bucket so fuckin’ what. Know what I mean? An’ now I feel so dizzy an’ I got no place to stay. I gotta make ten dollars soIcan. . .

Around the corner Domino was saying: And if we continue to let her, we’ll never make an honest buck.

That’s right, that’s right, said Bernadette.

Making a buck out of us is
her
program, said Domino, strolling into sight.

Christ, Domino, where would you be without her? Tyler cried out, utterly dejected in his soul. At that moment the whole crew of them seemed to him to be as beasts, ferocious and incapable of love or gratitude.

Without
whom?
returned Domino pertly.

You know your relative pronouns at least. I like that . . . he muttered.

Oh, leave her alone, said Bernadette. She just got georgia’d by two black men. She’s in pain. She’s agitated.

And what’s their blackness got to do with it is what I want to know, Chocolate said. What’s the difference what color their cocks were if they made her do the G? You’re all the same. Deep down, you all think black folks is just niggers.

Did you get hurt bad, Domino? he said, sorry for the blonde but still almost insufferably weary.

What’s it to you? You’re not here to see me anyway. You’re here to eat out Maj’s pussy. Why would you care?

My car’s parked by the Wonderbar, he said. You want a ride to the hospital?

Thank you, the blonde said. I know you mean well. It’s too late. Everything’s too late.

Tyler narrowed his eyes and asked: Are you bleeding?

Oh, fuck off.

Your whole face is swollen. But wait a second, Dom. Those are old bruises.

She stepped beneath a streetlight so that he could see her better, muttering: No, uh, I—

Look at you! he cried, shocked. You’ve got a black eye and a split lip. And your tooth . . . Those aren’t from today, either. What happened to you?

Stuff, said the blonde wearily.

You okay? he asked again and again.

Who do you think you are, the Queen? You’re not my mother. You’re just a prick like everybody else.

Irritated and hurt, Tyler walked away, peering into the obsidian darknesses of parked cars. The tall man smirked.

Chocolate was pouring out a line of detergent at the back door of the Wonderbar when he got back. Literacy is a disease, she mumbled

You want a ride? Tyler said.

She never answered. She was getting cracked up and paranoid.

Finally he had to leave. —Thanks for the ride, she said bitterly.

What had happened was this. Have you ever seen one of those antique jigsaw puzzles whose pieces are held together by a springloaded frame? Depress a lever, and everything flies apart. The royal family was a family no longer, and its members associated merely out of vestigial habit. They had every practical reason to continue honoring their kinship; but such sensible behavior as that would hardly be human.

The first outright cleavage had been precipitated (one could almost say perpetrated) by insects. Just as when, peering beneath the twin freeway bridges at Mission and Duboce into the grimy shade, you can spy Mission Street palmy and picturesque beyond, so when the tall man steel-shuttered his eyelids and went to sleep his perceptions carried him past his grief into strangely happy dreams. But when he awoke he was already scratching. His ankles wore chains of whitish bites which his fingernails quickly turned red. He went about his business that day and tried not to think about it, but at night he couldn’t sleep, and in the morning the desperately itching welts were on his buttocks and elbows and behind his knees. Again he went about his business, scratching. His sisters were clamoring for their medicine, but all he did was cop a dime bag for Strawberry. Surely the Queen took note of his discomfort, but she said nothing. In the old days one pass of her magic hands across his body would have relieved his misery entirely. The next day the welts reached his wrists, which he scratched until they bled, and then they began to blossom on his belly below the navel. He entered the Rolley’s supermarket on Geary Street and approached the pharmacist’s counter. Beside him stood one other customer, an old Chinese, who was being unenthusiastically waited on by a bored white girl. Behind the glass Justin could see two other pharmacy employees drinking coffee. Finally a Filipino-looking lady came out and asked him what he wanted.

I got scabies, the tall man said. See them red bumps on my hands? I have ’em all over my body now. They be gettin’ worse and they itch like hell. I want you to sell me some Mites-Off cream.