He seemed to hear actual laughter in his own head then. Angry, accusing laughter.
“Tonight, I hold one wish above all others for my fellow classmates; that in twenty years the world will judge each of us successful, not by our wealth or personal importance, but by our capacity to dream a better world and to realize those dreams. As for myself, I would rather be the least happy man in a happy world, than the happiest man in a sad one.”
Done at last, he fairly raced from the podium, hardly aware of the thunderous standing ovation he was receiving. Only when he was safely seated did he see his parents standing side by side, pounding their hands raw with approval, his mother’s face awash in happy tears for once.
Too late, he thought bleakly as the applause rang on. I’ve already failed . . . at all of it.
PART TWO
Taubolt
11
( Downward Mobility )
Most of the others didn’t seem to give a shit how people looked at them, but even after three years on the street, Gypsy still hated begging coins from folks who pretended not to see him even as they dropped change into his hand. It was hard to say which humiliated him most; the vacant stares, the guilty glances, or the outright sneers—not that Gypsy ever let it show, of course. He’d learned that lesson the hard way within days of leaving home. Let it show, and the cash cows walked right past you, while your fellow pan-handlers turned on exposed fear like sharks come to blood in the water.
He had imagined none of this on the day he’d fled his parents’ house to find “a more meaningful life,” but there was no going back now. He’d never been able to keep a job for long. Too much bullshit, too little patience. So, much as he hated sitting against this building, sticking out his hand as strangers looked away, the need to eat and feed his dog had taught him to smile at every one of them like they were long lost lovers, offering cheerful little compliments to those who gave, and to those who didn’t—long as they didn’t swear at him, or spit, or kick.
Then again, there were a few on any street who’d never learned to look away at all. Easy marks. You could spot ’em blocks away, and Berkeley seemed to have more of them than any city Gypsy’d lingered in so far. He watched one of them get off a bus down on the corner. Young guy, about his own age, arms around a box of something. Normally that would have knocked him right off Gypsy’s radar. Hands full was the best excuse around to pass you by, but everything about this guy said, “easy money.” Gypsy’d never seen a face so full of vulnerability, or body language that screamed, Please don’t ask. I’ll have to help you, more loudly. No charming smile for this one, though. This guy was a bleeder. Suffering was what made him tilt. Gypsy could tell. Christ! This guy wore so much on his face, he might as well be naked!
When the guy was close enough, Gypsy looked up wearily, and said, “Hey, bud. Any chance you’d help my dog ’n’ me get a bite to eat?”
The guy turned uncomfortably toward him, not quite meeting Gypsy’s eyes, then, sure enough, set down his box, pulled a surprising wad of change out of his pocket, and dropped it all into Gypsy’s hand. Bonanza! Gypsy thought gleefully. Had to be five dollars there, maybe more! To his surprise, the guy checked his other pocket too, and gave Gypsy what was there as well.
“Good-lookin’ dog,” the guy said, suddenly meeting Gypsy’s eyes, and actually smiling, if a little wanly.
“Hey, thanks!” Gypsy said, forgetting not to smile as he stashed the loot inside his jacket. There’d be meal tickets and dog food for a couple days in this chunk of change. “His name’s Shadow.”
“Suits him,” said the guy, turning his attention back to Gypsy’s black lab.
“He’s friendly,” Gypsy said. “You can pet him if you want.”
The guy reached out and ruffled Shadow’s head.
“I’m Gypsy,” Gypsy said, reaching out to shake hands before realizing how grimy his had gotten from hours of sitting on the sidewalk.
“Joby,” said the other guy, grabbing Gypsy’s hand without hesitation. “Well, you guys hang in there,” he offered, picking up his box of stuff, and turning to go.
“You too,” said Gypsy. “Hey, thanks again, man. God bless you, man. I mean it.”
Joby looked back long enough to nod and smile, then turned again to go his way, but a portly man scowling at him from the entrance of a convenience store said, “It’s stupid to encourage them, you know.”
“Pardon me?” Gypsy heard Joby say, turning to face the man.
“Thanks to people like you,” the man complained, “more of those bums clutter the sidewalk outside my shop here every day. I don’t much appreciate it.”
“You wouldn’t. You’re not hungry,” Joby replied, and made to walk on.
“You think he’ll spend that money on food?” the shopkeeper sneered. “You just bought that bum a beer, or a joint, more likely. Don’t you get it?”
Instantly pissed, Gypsy stood up intending to go set this asshole straight, but before he’d taken three steps, Joby said angrily, “I’m not here to manage everybody else’s life. What he does with that change is his responsibility. My responsibility is not to join the obscene surplus of mean-spirited tightwads ruining this whole planet!”
Whoa! Gypsy thought, coming to a halt. This was different.
“I’m not the one who’s ruining things!” the shopkeeper snapped. “My taxes pay for the sidewalk these bums sit around on all day. I’m productive! I have a job.”
“Lucky you,” Joby growled and turned again to leave.
“How do you know they’re even really poor?” the shopkeeper sneered at his retreating back. “Half of them just dress up in rags and bum fortunes in spare change here every day. You must be new to Berkeley, young man, or you’d know that. Everyone else does.” He turned away and muttered scornfully, “You’re so gullible,” then disappeared into the recesses of his shop.
“Least I don’t believe the homeless are all rich,” Joby grumbled as he left.
After three years on the street, Gypsy hadn’t thought anything could still surprise him. Calling Shadow to his side, he started after Joby. “Hey, man!” he called. “Wait up!”
Joby turned around, looking tired and a little impatient.
“Man, that was awesome!” Gypsy grinned as he caught up to Joby. “Thanks, dude! Nobody ever sticks up for us like that. Nobody.”
“That would be me.” Joby shrugged. “Nobody.”
Thinking maybe this guy wasn’t as easily read as he’d thought, Gypsy asked, “Why’d you do it, anyway? You don’t even know me.”
“You mean, tell that dickhead off?” Joby shrugged. “Wasn’t hard. Hell, I’ve been getting mad at dickheads all my life. One of the few things I do really well, it seems.”
“Why are you so down on yourself?” Gypsy asked.
“I’ve got a ways to walk still, and this is getting kind of heavy,” Joby said, nodding at the box he carried. “I should get going.” He turned and started up the street.
“Hey, I’m sorry,” Gypsy said. “I didn’ mean to dis you, man. Here, I’ll carry that for you.” He caught up to Joby again and reached to take the box.
“That’s okay,” Joby said. “I can manage.”
“You gave me some decent change back there,” Gypsy pressed. “Whatever that ass-wipe thinks, I got no problem workin’ for my daily bread.”
Joby stopped again, and turned to Gypsy with a bleak expression.
“My big nose gets me into all kinds of trouble,” Gypsy pled before Joby could speak. “But I’ll be honest, you got me pretty curious. I just wanna know why you been so cool to me when mostly people just wish I was gone.”
This had the surprising effect of making Joby look . . . not guilty, exactly, but something close to it.
“You gonna let me carry that?” Gypsy pressed.
“Sure. Why not?” Joby sighed, handing him the box. “Thanks.”
“No problem,” Gypsy said. The box had no top, so he figured it was okay to look. There were some pens
, a coffee cup, a half-empty bottle of mouth-wash, a soft pack of CDs, a few bottles of lemon iced tea and several pieces of fruit, three fantasy novels, and a mechanical monkey on a tricycle. “What is all this anyway?” he asked. “You movin’ or somethin’?”
Joby sighed again as they began to walk, and said, “It’s stuff from work. I just lost my third job in six months.”
“No way!” Gypsy said.
“Way,” Joby replied humorlessly. “At this rate, I’ll be sitting outside that asshole’s shop myself within a month.”
Gypsy stopped walking, utterly at a loss.
“Why the hell’d you give me all that change then?” Gypsy asked. “Ain’t you gonna need it?”
Joby shrugged. “I’ll go broke an hour sooner now. Doesn’t matter much to me. Matter to you?”
“A lot,” Gypsy said, realizing that after all these pointless years, he’d finally stumbled into someone he might actually want to know.
Joby’s studio apartment was four flights up in a converted Victorian hotel with cracked Tiffany windows, scarred parquet floors, and beamed ceilings enameled in garish yellow. It shared a wall with the moldering Art Deco movie theater next door, so that late at night, if he pressed his ear to the plaster, he could hear snatches of sweaty passion or melancholy dialogue in foreign languages. He’d already paid this month’s rent. There might be just enough in his bank account to cover next month’s too, if he didn’t eat. He’d called this charming little dump home for nine long years. The only tenants who’d lived in the building longer were its cockroaches, but Joby harbored no illusion that his long tenure would win any lenience from the landlord.
After dropping his box of stuff on the threadbare couch, he went to the window and stared down at Shattuck Avenue’s busy traffic, wondering what to do with his untimely freedom. It was too late for a matinee and too early for anything else. Perhaps, he thought sardonically, he should have invited Gypsy to come up and chat some more. By the time they’d gotten here, the young vagrant had begun to grow on him a little, in an Oliver Twist sort of way. Learning of Joby’s dilemma, Gypsy had been full of useful tips about where to eat on twenty-five cents a day, and how to sleep warmly outside in winter.
With a heavy sigh, Joby turned from the window and wandered toward the alcove pantry that doubled as his bedroom. Sitting down there on his narrow cot—or, more precisely, on the pile of dirty laundry covering it—he tried to come up with yet another plan, though he doubted it would matter what he tried. Since getting himself kicked out of school nine years earlier, Joby’s life had seemed to decompose as inexorably as all those soggy newspapers heaped up in the apartment building’s leaky basement. Each tedious, menial job he’d lost had led to some even more meaningless job, until now it seemed he wasn’t even equipped to enter columns of pointless numerals into a database all day at InfoStream. He had certainly done his best—at all the jobs he’d lost—but any expectation of cause and effect between effort and results had abandoned him long ago. He hadn’t so much as one good reference to show for all those years of futility.
Turning to his parents for help was out of the question. Joby had concluded long ago that it was best for them, and for himself, that they know as little as possible about what his life had become. He called them several times a year to let them know he was alive, and assure them, however fraudulently, that all was well. Probably sensing that the truth would be unpleasant, they seemed content to let things go at that.
Trying to find some more comfortable perch on the pile of clothes beneath him, Joby conceded that he might as well bundle this mess up and walk it to the Laundromat. The apartment’s gloom made him feel claustrophobic anyway.
Moments later, he walked back through the dingy lobby of his building and stepped into the frenetic stream of pedestrians outside. Squinting against the bright September afternoon, he hoisted his trash bag of clothing over one shoulder and started toward the corner, where yet another specimen of ravaged humanity was hunkered down against the wall. Sitting in her long, ragged skirts, weaving strands of yarn around a tiny cross of sticks, the weathered old woman looked like an apple doll someone had left out all winter in the rain. As he passed, she offered him a merry, half-toothless, smile.
“Sorry,” he grunted, looking away. “Gave it all to the last guy.”
Sometimes every moment in Hell seemed an eternity to Williamson. Halfway through Malcephalon’s interminable presentation, he had begun counting silently backward from 666,666 just to combat the boredom. Now, he was starting to wonder if some larger number might not be called for.
Lucifer’s conference room had been enlarged several times during the past ten years to accommodate the swelling legions of Hell’s most renowned glitterati sitting around it now. Williamson was still accorded no loftier role than “security camera,” of course, though Lucifer continued to demand his analysis in private, only to credit himself later for all the best ideas.
“Malcephalon!” blurted out an enormous pile of demonic flab named Basquel. “While we all stand in awe of your inexhaustible expertise, eternity is ticking by. Is the boy ready yet, or isn’t he?”
Malcephalon fell silent, glowering at his detractor.
“Don’t be petulant, darling,” teased a stunning succubus wrapped in glimmering silks, “Basquel’s just admitting that brilliant insights like yours are wasted on minds like his own.” Basquel shot her a threatening frown. “But surely you can understand our eagerness to know. Is he soup yet, or not?”
“Not,” Malcephalon intoned. “Yet,” he added to stifle the rustle of discontent rippling through the assembly.
“We’re twenty-four years into this campaign,” Lucifer growled impatiently, “which, by the wager’s terms, leaves us only seven more to bring some plan to fruition. How long can it take to break one pathetic boy’s spirit?”
“You insist on cautious subterfuge,” droned the dour demon. “Give him no meaningful crises, you say, nothing to battle but himself, yes? Such strategies require time. The boy’s will is strong, his character sadly well intentioned. By now he is very angry, of course, but directs that anger largely at himself, just as you commanded—which causes him to rot, much as a pear does, from the core outward. The skin will be last to go. I fear we can expect little visible satisfaction until all he’s stored inside these many years exceeds capacity. Then, I assure you, the whole structure will collapse at once, and we will have a victory as swift and devastating as its construction was . . . meticulous.”
“Which should occur when, exactly?” Lucifer pressed in overt exasperation.
“You ask me to read tea leaves, Bright One,” Malcephalon complained, “but, if we continue to be very careful . . . I think, perhaps . . . within the year.”
At the resulting clamor, Williamson sank farther into his chair, demoralized. If he didn’t find some way to grab the ball soon, he might never get the chance.
Autumn had blown fiercely into winter. Rain gusted through Berkeley’s streets now, slicking asphalt and concrete to a gloomy sheen. Heavy fabrics in dark colors were back in fashion for those who could afford to care. Joby could not. His job interviews always seemed to go well, then—nothing—as if all his applications had simply vanished behind him. In October, he’d finally taken young Gypsy’s advice and started dining here, at the Berkeley Public Meal Project, to conserve his dwindling funds. Dinner could be had each night for twenty-five cents in the basement of this Unitarian Church.
Standing in a cold drizzle amidst the smoky, milling throng waiting for the dining hall to open, he looked around for Gypsy. Joby’s initial forays into Berkeley’s street culture had been awkward at best. Having no idea how to behave around people he did not remotely understand, he had behaved badly at first. Had it not been for Gypsy’s almost eager willingness to mediate between Joby and the others, he might never have been accepted here. As Gypsy had helped him discard his distorted preconceptions, however, Joby had come to enjoy the companionship of his new peers. Now dinner w
as the highlight of his day, and Gypsy was one of the best friends he’d made in years.
To Joby’s disappointment, the boy was nowhere to be seen tonight. Across the parking lot, however, by a cluster of rumpled men drinking from paper bags beside the Dumpster, he saw “the little old yarn weaver,” as he’d once thought of her. Joby smiled and raised a hand in greeting. She waved back with one hand, waving off a proffered bottle with the other. Their friendship had been born gracelessly as well.
As Joby had wandered the city that fall looking for employment, she had come to seem almost omnipresent in her mass of fraying skirts, weaving her little ornaments of brightly colored yarn. She’d never said a word to him, much less asked for money, but had often smiled when he passed, as if they were old friends. This strange attention had come to cause him such discomfort that he’d started turning corners at the sight of her. Not until Gypsy had finally introduced them at the Project, one clear October evening, had Joby learned her name. Mary, it turned out, was regarded by nearly everyone here as the unofficial queen of Berkeley’s streets.
No one seemed quite sure where she had come from, or how long she’d been around, but all agreed it had been longer than most among this transient crowd. Nor could anyone say where she went at night. But there was no one easier to find by day, as Joby had already discovered, and once he’d quit avoiding her, he’d quickly come to appreciate her marvelous sense of humor and great trove of earthy wisdom.
“What are you doing here?” rasped a voice at Joby’s shoulder.
Joby whirled to find a gaunt man of sickly gray complexion whose short pewter hair seemed more bitten off than cut, and stumbled back, as much from the reek of urine, sweat, and stale smoke as from surprise.
“I know what you’re doing up there!” the man insisted in a rapid-fire staccato. “I hear you through the floor! I hear everything!” He wrung a knot of greasy rags nervously between his hands. “I know all about Nixon’s daughter.”
The Book of Joby Page 25
