In Nine Kinds of Pain
Page 7
Tall Black Man reaches down and picks up a small scrap of paper from the endtable: old granddad, marshmellons, oleo, bred, cigeretes, call momma, pick up laudry at laudry place, vernors on sale.
“That’s a list,” she says.
“Is that what this is? No shit,” he replies.
She takes note of the tall black man: well-dressed and handsome, about 6’4” she’ll say when asked, a dark complexion even for one of the brothers from around here, she’ll say, a darker Denzel with a tall fade—who would still be wearing a tall fade?—she’ll say, and very polite, put that down in the report, too, she’ll say. Write down that he was very polite for a murderer. She notices him scouting the closet.
The tall black man brings out a plastic laundry bag and, like a leopard, leaps, tugs the bag over her head, wraps it several times around her neck, and then lets go.
Now, she screams.
Tall Black Man listens as she screams. He knows it’s just a matter of time before she stops screaming, and no one in this building, no one in this neighborhood, will stop doing an honest/dishonest day’s work to find out why someone’s screaming. So, he lies on Dante’s side of the bed, his muddy shoes soiling the damp sheets, and he rests. He waits until she stops her screaming before he leans in to look at her.
He watches the bag puff out and draw in, puff out and draw in, puffff outttt and drawwww innnn, pufffff . . . drawwwww . . . puuuuufffff . . . drrrrrawwwww . . .
Her eyes are bulging from their sockets, Tall Black Man notices. And she’s crying, or at least he sees a tear, so he doesn’t know if she’s crying or if her body’s reacting to the lack of oxygen. Or sweating. Maybe it’s sweat, and not a tear. He can’t tell. He props up a pillow, Dante’s pillow, just a bit. He wants to get a good look at her face. No, he was right the first time; that looks like a tear.
“You know,” Tall Black Man begins, his voice deep, “my mother would cry. She would cry for me all the time. Not for herself, but for me. She would cry for me because I was the one who had to go to school with a jam sandwich instead of anything worthwhile. A jam sandwich was all I had. Get me? You know what a jam sandwich is? It’s two pieces of bread, jammed together.” He smashes his two hands-like-ballgloves together to demonstrate. “That’s a jam sandwich. And she cried for me. She would cry for every sandwich she would ever make for me. Every time she packed my lunch . . . bam, start crying. Packed me a butter sandwich once. Just butter in bread. That was all. Packed me a noodle sandwich once. And then, for an entire week, I got nothing but cheese sandwiches. Big hunks of cheese, too, because she didn’t like to skimp when she got me something good to take to school. Every day, a cheese sandwich. I was bound up for weeks after that. I asked her to start packing me jam sandwiches again instead. Didn’t taste any good, but at least I wasn’t bound up.” He smiles. “She threw me a curveball one time. She told me that she packed me a fish sandwich, so I expected something like cod or white bass or something like that, which was stupid of me since I knew she probably couldn’t afford expensive stuff like that. But I figured that maybe the guy who lived next door, the one who used to visit her late at night, maybe he gave it to her. He liked to fish the river. Every morning he’d leave, sometimes from our house, sometimes from his wife’s house. But either way he was off fishing before the sun come up. So I figured I had a good sandwich that day. I went through the whole morning looking forward to lunchtime, just picturing this big ol’ river fish sandwich that I had in my lunchbag. I wouldn’t have even minded if it still had its head on. I just wanted to dig into some fish sandwich. So I get down to lunch, and the bag was really reeking by this time and all wet on the bottom, but I didn’t care, and I ripped it open and . . . what do you think I found? Hmm?” He pauses a few seconds as if waiting for a response. “A big ol’ river fish sandwich? Wrong! It was a sardine sandwich! A sardine sandwich! And it wasn’t even no good sardines! They had gone and expired! Rot-gut sardines. And the bread had soaked up all the sardine juice! Man, was I sick that day. I had to go home sick from school. I told her to start packing me jam sandwiches again after that. Can’t screw up a jam sandwich.
“Just two pieces of bread, jammed together’s all.”
He allows the image to fade, then leans in to her. “I need my money, and my stuff. And I’ll find it.”
He kisses her lifeless mouth, then leaves.
Tuesday
Here is Wisdom
Live in the city of Detroit long enough and you get that Thousand Yard Stare. You know the Thousand Yard Stare—it’s what the soldiers in war would get once they’ve been in battle for too long, and have seen they’re buddies shot dead right in front of them. They got the chance to see Death, to look directly into Death’s blood-shot eyes, and wonder if they were next. And then they got the Thousand Yard Stare, whether they wanted it or not.
The Stare is more about hopelessness than anything. It’s about not being able to get away fast enough. And it’s about worrying day and night that your kids won’t be fast enough, either. It’s about locking yourself in every night like a prisoner, and hoping that whatever is out there will stay out there for just one more night, and then just one more night, and then just one more night.
And then just one more night.
That’s one of the reasons Detroiters don’t actually look at each other as they pass on the streets. They can’t see people that close to them. They can only see the people who are possibly approaching, and will pass them shortly. You know that it’s important to evaluate those people from a distance, and if something doesn’t feel right, if you feel that something will go wrong, then you have to cross the street early, before that person who’s approaching catches on that you’ve caught on to them. Your punishment might be worse if that person finds out you’ve made them for whatever they are. If you cross the street too soon, or too late, then you’ve lost.
And eye contact as you pass someone could lead to confrontation. You get used to “looking through” people. If you look through them, without actually looking at them, then you’ve given them the courtesy of acknowledging their existence without directly acknowledging that they’re there, in the city, on that street, with you. And looking through a person shows them that you’re not weak, that you’re not scared of them, that you see/don’t see them, and that you choose to walk near them. You don’t tighten your grip on your purse, feel for your wallet, change your step, when you walk passed them, no matter how scared you are—it’s worse to show them that you are afraid than to actually be afraid.
You definitely can’t be scared of the street people. You definitely try to look through them. The street people may look scary, but only because they dress to impress in the dirty layered look, but they’re not, really. But, if you do go downtown sometime (which I’m not sure why you’d want to, probably only because you have to), you’ll get accosted by them. They’ll jump in front of you, run along side you, cross the street with you, almost get in your car with you, all the while with their grubby hand in your face. In fact, go down to the university on Warren and Cass and you’ll Run the Homeless Gauntlet. You can see them coming, and they can see you coming, and in the span of half a block you’ll be accosted by no less than five grubby paws. You make an excuse to the first homeless guy (and most all of them are guys), but as you Run the Homeless Gauntlet you’ll speak less and less to the beggars, until that last guy, the one who you want to knock in front of a speeding bus, gets nothing from you but a dirty look. And when you find out on the local news that these guys make close to $300 a day panhandling (panhandling on university campuses is great for them, because there are so many guilt-ridden liberals on college campuses that the panhandlers can expect those idiots to give freely, so the liberals can absolve the sins of their wealth), you want to panhandle from them. The really bad thing, the thing that makes you hate these bums even more, is their arrogance. You remember the time you worked in downtown Detroit at the soup kitchen. You worked there fo
r several years, and during that time you saw some of the biggest abuses of the system known to man. Like, for instance, every Friday morning, when you’d serve food buffet-style to the “homeless,” and you’d see the guy pull up in his Cadillac, get a tray, eat some food, then go outside to talk his the cell phone before speeding away. And he wasn’t the only one. You would see many, many, many such instances of the system being abused in that way. But you can’t say anything, because you’re supposed to be nurturing. And gentle. And giving. (Isn’t that what “helping the homeless” is all about?) But you’d hope that someday you’d walk out into the parking lot and see that Cadillac guy getting his ass kicked by a guy who really needed the food. The worst thing, the very worst thing about the Cadillac guys or the Run the Homeless Gauntlet guys, is knowing that these guys aren’t representational of the poverty-stricken, the helpless, the hurt, the homeless of the city. They are one tiny itty-bitty fraction. If you were asked to picture a homeless person in your mind, you would probably picture a man, a black man, a guy in rags, he needs a shave, he’s carrying around ten thousand bags, he looks hungry, he’s just hoping for some hope. But you don’t think about the women, the countless number of women who are homeless, who left an abusive relationship, who left everything to get out alive, who live in a shelter, who don’t know where else to turn. You don’t picture them. But they’re out there, and they’re a major faction of the homeless population. Or the children. The one-in-five-of-all-homeless-are-children children, the kids who are living on the street, hustling, stealing, wanting, hurting, unloved, some loved too much, some loved by their homeless mother, rarely their homeless father, kids who are too embarrassed to go to school because they’re dirty, or have no decent clothes, or can’t go because they need to hustle some money from somewhere to survive. Rarely are they the face of the homeless and it’s a shame, because those who abuse the system, scam it for all it’s worth, driving the Cadillacs and talking on their cell phones, or making close to $300 a day panhandling on Warren and Cass, those are the creatures you picture when you picture the homeless (not the women and children, or men who are really needy), and it’s because of them, the ones who you find that are the scammers, that you refuse to give money to the homeless. It’s because of the scammers that you have such a bad taste in your mouth, that force you to turn your back, that make you shake your head at legitimate poverty. It’s because of the scammers that you’re hardened to the plight of the homeless, and it’s not your fault.
You definitely aren’t afraid of the homeless people you encounter on the street. You look right through them, too, just as you look through everyone else. You maintain your Thousand Yard Stare.
And you think it’s funny when you walk through a parking lot in the suburbs and some scared person, someone who doesn’t have the Thousand Yard Stare and wouldn’t survive one minute in your city, quickly locks their car door as you pass. You would never want to be that person, because that person, without knowing the rules that you know, just empowered you. You now think of that person as your bitch, because that person was afraid of you and they showed it. They blinked first. They don’t know the rules. And because of their ignorance, you rap your knuckles against their car as you walk away, to show them that you saw them blink, and to show them that you know they’re scared.
Tall Black Man and Baby
Baby only realizes she has her cell phone on her once it rings. The ringtone is Lauren Pritchard’s “Not the Drinking.” She answers it.
“Hello?”
“Hello, is this Baby that I’m speaking to?”
She recognizes the voice, but only in a vague, this-could-be-the-devil-himself sort of way. “Who is this?”
“I think you know who this is,” Tall Black Man says. “And I think you know why I’m calling. I need my money, and my stuff. It’s in that bag you stole from Dante. That bag wasn’t his. It was mine. So I need you to give it back to me. Now.”
She clicks the phone closed. The needles crawl up her back, and the phone rings again. This time she checks the number—it’s Dante calling.
“Dante!” she says.
“No,” the voice says (it’s the devil voice again), “it’s me again. I’m just using Dante’s phone. He won’t be needing it anymore. So, are you going to give me my money and my stuff, or am I going to have to find you and take it back myself?”
“Who are you?” she asks.
“You know me, Baby,” he says, but now his voice
She clicks the phone closed again.
Baby’s Realization
She suddenly realizes that Dante is dead, that that was what the devil-man was talking about. He killed Dante. She stops walking, pictures Dante’s face, and then continues walking. And she doesn’t think about Dante again. Her only concern now is to find a place to hide.
Dallas Paints His House
Dallas has known Ron Frady since he started on the force. Frady is a quiet man, an unassuming man, a man who never asks too many questions, never volunteers his time, never asks Dallas for the time of day. Yet, for some reason unbeknownst to Dallas, Frady is on his way over to Dallas’ house.
Dallas has not given up on Liz yet. He knows Liz is a woman of spontaneity, who follows her passion, of which Dallas knows he has none. The only thing he has been passionate about lately, this Liz knew, was the dog next door. It is owned by the Mexicans who purchased the house for an ungodly sum and moved four families in, none of whom speak a word of English. Dallas would see them and not recognize one man from another, not introduce himself, not say a word. All of the men look alike to Dallas. Some of the women look alike to him as well. The men dress in jeans and baseball caps and work boots, and all have short cropped black hair and dark black marbles for eyes. The women all have long black hair—during the week, the women wear sweats and walk their infinite number of small babies up and down the street, crossing the street in front of moving cars, allowing their children to play with stray dogs. On the weekends, Dallas notices the women even more, because they dress provocatively, tight jeans and belly shirts (even if they’re chunky gorditas, they still wear the tight clothing and don’t care how much their flabby stomachs show), high heels, hair and nails done by the salon on the corner. Dallas wonders how their men feel about the way their women dress on the weekends, because he knows the filling of a Mexican man is not menudo, but machismo. Still, with all the people living next door, none of them take care of the dog.
And it’s a lovable dog. Dallas talks to the dog in the mornings. He looks over into the Mexicans’ yard and sees the dog looking at him from its small dogshit-filled pen, and it wags its tail. To Dallas, it looks like it’s always smiling at him. Why are you smiling at me? he thinks. Are you smiling at me because I show you some attention? Are you smiling because you want me to go over to you and give you a treat and pet you, treat you with a treat and pet you like a pet? Don’t smile at me. Don’t smile.
Dallas was first introduced to the dog, who he calls Smiley, during the winter. When it was a pup it was clumsy and had big paws. One night, after a bad snowfall, Dallas heard something thumping on his front porch. It sounded like someone was lobbing bowling balls at his house. Liz was passed out from drinking, so it wasn’t her trying to burn down the house again. Dallas thought it might have been some of the neighborhood punks, the real crackheads, retaliating again
st him for not letting them shovel his walks (he didn’t want to feed their need). So he drew his revolver and slammed it through the window, and the dog, Smiley, stopped chasing its tail and looked at him. Dallas looked back. The dog was wet and had dog shit stuck to its fur. It put its paws out and then scampered away. Dallas looked out to its pen and saw that the snow had built up so high that Smiley was able to climb out of his Alcatraz and free himself. Dallas saw the dog a day later, licking water from a run-off puddle and eating out of a baby diaper, and then didn’t see it again for days. He worried, thinking it was dead, but he was glad in a way that it had escaped its solitary confinement and was free. But, two days later, Smiley was back in his pen, chained to his house.
To Dallas’ surprise, it survived the winter.
Dallas can see Smiley sleeping. It is still on its chain, six months later. One of the small Mexican boys, the one that’s always being yelled at in Spanish, the one that always screams back at the top of his little lungs in Spanish and then gets spanked and is probably going to grow up to be a neighborhood punk, is pelting Smiley with mud balls. Dallas wants to get his paint can and, from up on his vantage point atop the ladder, nail the kid in the side of the head with it. That will stop him from hitting Smiley with mud balls, Dallas thinks. Maybe.