Trader

by Charles de Lint

  “I don’t—”

  “And then there’s those who’d just as soon cut your throat as give you the time of the day.” He gives me a sharp look, making sure I’m paying attention. “It’s different in this world, living on the street. Different from the ones that the citizens live in—the one you just came from. And it’s changing all the time. I tell you, these days I don’t know if we’re all the same species out here anymore. I don’t mean black man, white man, skin—none of that. Just, who’s human and who’s not. Who’s planning to give a little and who just wants to take. Who’s comfortable in their own skin and who thinks they’re worth more than the rest of us. Thing that people forget is, we all die, right? We all die and no matter what we do, the universe is going to go on, perfectly happy without us in it.”

  I’ve long since lost the point of what he’s saying—if there even was one. He’s still wearing that smile, the kind that goes too far and makes the person on the receiving end uneasy. Makes me uneasy, anyway. I have to wonder, why’d he pick me to talk to?

  He looks at me now, expectant.

  “So...what?” I say. “Do you want to know which kind of person I am?”

  “I already know that. I look at you, I look inside you, and I know.”

  “I see...”

  He laughs. “You want to know why I’m buying? Okay. See, the deal is, I’ve got coin to spare, so why not share? Are you interested or not?”

  I’m not sure where all of this has been leading to, but I know one thing.

  “I’m interested,” I tell him. “The truth is, I’d kill for a coffee and something to eat.”

  “Watch what you say,” Bones warns me. “You never know what spirits are listening. Maybe they’ll take you seriously and the next thing you know they’re waving a contract in your face and trying to stick a pen nib in one of your veins.”

  He’s beginning to remind of Janossy. Not in the way he looks, or even in what he’s saying. It’s more the attitude. It’s back to the eyes. It’s as though there’s an invisible world that he can look into, not even necessarily because he wants to, but because he can.

  “What do you do here in the park?” I ask as we head over to one of the carts.

  “I read the bones and tell people stories about themselves.”

  It takes me a moment to work that out. Now all the mumbo-jumbo starts to make sense.

  “So you’re one of the fortune-tellers,” I say.

  It figures. The knowledge I’ve acquired of Janossy’s mystical woodworking theories notwithstanding, I don’t have a whole lot of patience with all of this New Age stuff. These days aroma therapies and mushroom teas are going to cure all our problems. That’s because the pyramids and crystals didn’t work.

  “I suppose it depends on your definition of fortune,” he says.

  “No, I mean you read the future for people.”

  That crazy look’s real strong in his eyes now.

  “I know what you meant,” he says. “A large coffee for my friend here,” he adds, addressing the man at the cart. “And a Darjeeling for me.” He looks down at Buddy’s hopeful features then back at me. “What do you think your friend’d like?” he asks.

  He’s let the spacy stuff go, just like that. Like throwing a switch. He’s on, he’s off. But I’m too hungry to worry at it anymore and I know Buddy is, too, so I let it go.

  “Do they sell big juicy steaks here?” I ask.

  He laughs. “Maybe toast us up a bag of bagels, too,” he tells the vendor.

  3 TANYA

  Tanya came into the kitchen to find Zeffy counting change, the coins clicking against each other on the wooden tabletop as her roommate organized them into piles by denomination. The biggest pile was quarters, a small hillock of metal that glinted in the sunlight streaming in through the kitchen window. The same light gave Zeffy’s hair a radiant hennaed glow as though the red-gold tangle of curls had been spun from threads of fire.

  It always bothered Tanya, the way Zeffy shortchanged her own looks. There was something intrinsically appealing about Zeffy, an immediacy and warmth that rose up from someplace deep inside her to give her an aura as welcoming and bright as the sun now haloing her hair. Given a choice, Tanya would trade looks with her in a moment. Who needed another fashion-magazine clone?—which was what Tanya saw when she met herself in a mirror. It wasn’t anything she worked at, but there it was, all the same. It made no difference if she dressed down or didn’t bother wearing makeup. That face in the mirror was the face of a clone, interchangeable with those looking out at her from the newsstand, Vogue, Elle and the like.

  The world needed more angels like Zeffy.

  She could look fierce, oh yes. All Tanya had to do was think of Zeffy facing down both Johnny and his neighbor yesterday morning to remember just how fierce. But mostly Zeffy carried a Botticelli nimbus about her that had everyone wanting to be her friend. Tanya would much rather be someone’s friend than one more variation on this year’s model.

  “What are you doing?” she asked Zeffy as she poured herself a coffee.

  There was enough in the pot for one last mug, which made her wonder just how long Zeffy had been up. Considering Zeffy didn’t have a shift today, Tanya had been sure she’d sleep in.

  “Counting my tips,” Zeffy replied. “How much did you make yesterday?”

  Tanya shrugged. “I don’t know. Maybe seven dollars.”

  She looked in the fridge to discover that they were still out of milk. That figured. It had probably been her turn to pick it up and, as usual, she’d forgotten. Joining her roommate at the table, she saw that Zeffy had written the amount, seven dollars, along with a question mark, down on the pad of paper by her elbow.

  “I did a little better,” Zeffy said. “But then I was there for the whole day.”

  “What’s this for?”

  Zeffy gave her an oh-please look. “The rent. We have to raise—let me see—a hundred and sixty-eight dollars by tomorrow. Got any rich friends you can hit on?”

  “Oh my god. I forgot.”

  “And I don’t think Johnny’s going to come through in time.” Zeffy gave her a rueful look. “If he ever comes through, which I doubt.”

  “What’re we going to do?”

  Zeffy sighed and sat back in her chair. “I don’t know. Maybe I can get some work with a temp agency for a couple of days. That’d help.”

  “Couldn’t you ask Jilly or Wendy to trade off shifts with you?”

  “I already did—that’s why I was going to stay home. I was supposed to have the rest of the week free to practice for my gig. It’s kind of short notice to ask them to switch again.”

  You don’t need to practice, Tanya almost said, but she managed to keep it to herself. Zeffy was confident about everything except her music, which was ridiculous, considering how good she was. Still, if Zeffy felt she needed the time to practice, then Tanya thought she should have it. She was all for anything that would help Zeffy do well at the gig, so the thought that Zeffy might have to go out and do some secretarial work for a couple of days made her feel particularly guilty. How could she have been so stupid as to lend Johnny that money?

  Then she had an idea.

  “Why don’t you do what Geordie does?” she said.

  Zeffy looked blankly at her.

  “You know, go out and busk. That way you could practice and earn some money at the same time.”

  “I couldn’t do that,” Zeffy said.

  “Why not?”

  “Because, well, where would I...” She shook her head. “I wouldn’t even know where to begin.”

  “Come on. It’d be perfect. You could go to St. Paul’s, or down to the park. Catch a few rays, practice, make some money. Look at that sky out there. How can you even think of not enjoying it?”

  Zeffy glumly followed her gaze and looked out the window.

  “It’s shaping up to be a beautiful day,” Tanya said. “What more could a woman ask for out of life?”

  “I don’
t know if it’s the kind of thing I could do, Tanya. I’d feel so...so vulnerable.”

  Tanya wanted to be sympathetic, but she knew that at this moment it would be a mistake.

  “You’ve practiced tons in your bedroom,” she said. “Maybe it’s time you got a little more experience playing for real people.”

  “I...”

  “Oh god,” Tanya said. “Look at the time. I’ve got to run or I’ll be late.” She gulped down the last of her coffee, grimacing at the lack of milk. “But promise me this: You won’t call some temp agency. Remember how horrible it was the last time we did that?”

  “I remember.”

  “So promise you won’t.”

  “I can’t. If we don’t come up with—”

  “Promise me.”

  Zeffy sighed. “Okay, already. I promise.”

  “And think about the busking deal.”

  “That I can’t promise.”

  “I didn’t say do it,” Tanya told her, “although I think you should. I just want you to seriously consider giving it a try.”

  Tanya stood by the kitchen door, refusing to leave until Zeffy gave in. “Okay,” Zeffy said. “I’ll seriously consider giving it a try.”

  “It'll be great,” Tanya told her. “You’ll see.”

  “Oh, right.”

  “Just don't let the fame and fortune go to your head.”

  Zeffy had to laugh. “From busking?”

  Tanya turned away. Calling back over her shoulder, she added, “And say hi to Geordie for me if you happen to run into him.”

  “Sure,” Zeffy said. “Hey, maybe I’ll see if he wants to form a band with me. You know, we could be an item, on stage and off.”

  Tanya didn’t have to look back from where she stood by the front door to know her roommate was joking.

  “In your dreams,” she said.

  She timed her parting shot perfectly so that the door closed on “dreams,” leaving Zeffy unable to put in the last word.

  4 MAX

  I can’t remember the last time food tasted this good. Bones sits there beside me, sipping his tea and smiling while Buddy and I stuff ourselves, the toasted bagel halves vanishing in three, four bites. He buys me a second coffee and I could’ve gone for another, but I don’t ask and he doesn’t offer. Besides, I should be ungrateful for what he’s already bought me? Not likely. Right now, all I feel for him is a warm affection, crazy eyes and all.

  When the bagels are all gone, I’m so full I couldn’t eat another bite. Even Buddy is finally satiated, lying there on the pavement by our feet, stomach swollen, a sappy contented look on his face. Bones smiles some more.

  “The two of you look better already,” he says.

  “Thanks,” I tell him. “I never thought I could be that hungry.”

  “You don’t know hungry,” Bones says, “and I hope you never do.” There’s a world of history in what he’s saying. I think of news pictures I’ve seen of famine victims and I know he’s right. For the first time since we’ve met, I wonder about him—not so much who he is or what he does, or even why he’s befriended me, but where he came from, how he came to live the way he does. He shakes his head when I ask him.

  “Uh-uh,” he says. “First rule you’ve got to learn: You never ask how any of us got to be on the street. Life’s different here from the way it is where the citizens live. They’re all talking, talking, talking to each other about themselves, about each other, wanting to know this, wanting to know that. Down here, we don’t ask about each other. Person wants to tell you something, fine. But don’t ask. That’s a big no-no. Too much hurt caught up in most of our lives. Most of us, we don’t want to remember.”

  “I’ll keep that in mind.”

  “You do that,” he says.

  He looks away and I follow his gaze. The businesspeople might have gone on to their jobs, but this part of the park’s busier now than it was when I first got here. The first baby strollers are congregating down by the War Memorial, commanded by a fairly even mix of older women and teenagers. Some of the girls are so young. I wonder which are nannies and which are taking their own infants out for some air. I see kids playing hooky from school, retirees strolling the paths, people walking their dogs. More joggers—I guess they don’t have jobs to go to, but it makes me wonder how they can afford all that expensive exercise gear. The buskers, fortune-tellers and craftspeople are starting to arrive, having their breakfasts, gossiping with each other, not so much getting ready for business as staking out their spots. Most of the street people have given up their benches. Some are making a halfhearted attempt at panhandling, but nobody here at this time has any money for them. Others have just drifted off, carrying all their belongings with them in a few plastic bags or a shopping cart.

  “Think about it,” Bones adds. “Nobody’s homeless because they’ve got a choice. Nobody lives on the street if they’ve got a home or a job they can go to. We’ve got people here should be in the Zeb, or some kind of halfway house, but no one’s got the time or money for them, so they’re just walking through the fog of their lives, marking time. We’ve got others too screwed up on drugs or drink to think much straighter. But most of us’d take something better. There’s just no opportunities. There’s nothing left for us out here but what we can scratch out for ourselves.”

  “It’s criminal,” I say.

  “Sure it is.”

  “Somebody should do something about it.”

  Bones smiles. “And what did you do, before you found yourself down here living with us?”

  I want to explain that my circumstances aren’t the same, but then I realize that what’s happened to me is no different from what’s happened to anyone else I see living here on the street. Maybe it was a little weirder, how I got here, but just like them, I didn’t have a choice and that’s what it all boils down to. That’s what Bones is trying to tell me.

  “Now some people,” he says, “they make enough, get themselves a cheap room, maybe. Hotel or rooming house. Maybe they get to eat a little better. But it’s a long road back to where you’re a citizen again. So meanwhile, you make do. Try to hang on to a little something for yourself, even if it’s just a piece of pride that you haven’t given up yet. But how you got here, it’s nothing you want to talk about. Mostly, that’s the way it is. Nobody wants to remember the fall. You worry on that too much and it just makes you crazy. So you live on handouts and sometimes you smoke a little or drink a little, just to help you forget. You make do.”

  He looks back at me. “What do you think? Are you going to make do?” I don’t know what to say. I haven’t really thought that far ahead. I don’t want to think that far. I don’t want to make do with the mess of Johnny Devlin’s life. I want my own back.

  “This is what,” Bones asks. “Your second, third day?”

  “Second.”

  “So, you’ve still got a chance. Your clothes are in decent shape—you’re pretty clean. Could use a shave, comb your hair, maybe.”

  “What’re you saying?”

  He shakes his head. “You’re some piece of work. What do you think I’m saying? Get yourself a job. Sell hamburgers, bus tables, wash dishes. Do whatever it takes before you lose the chance.”

  “But—”

  “See, they can smell it on you and I’m not just talking about BO. They know when you’re too hungry for the job. You go now, maybe you can still get one. A few more days on the street and you won’t exist for them anymore. You’ll become invisible.”

  Get a job. As Johnny Devlin. Start all over again with no future, no hope? I don’t even want to think about it. The kinds of jobs Bones is describing would steal too much time away, time I need to figure out how to get back what’s mine.

  “I can’t do it,” I tell him.

  Bones shrugs. “I’m not even going to ask why.”

  He stands up then, hoists his backpack and the two stools. He seems disappointed in me, as though he feels he’s wasted his money and advice. “Time I was sett
ing up,” he says.

  I trail along with him, Buddy at my heels. There’s a free space along one of the paths where the other vendors are setting up their tables and crates, a kind of obvious no-man’s-land. As he heads toward it, I realize that there’s more to Bones than meets the eye. He’s not simply a homeless fortune-teller making do, but a big fish in this little pond. There are more vendors than there are good spots, but no one’s touching the space he’s heading toward. Without anybody having to tell me, I know it belongs to him—whether through respect or fear, I can’t tell.

  “You have any skills?” Bones asks.

  He unfolds his stools, sets them up so that they’re facing each other, sits down on the one facing the path. I don’t make the mistake of sitting in the other, though Buddy’s curious enough to give it a smell all around.

  “What kind of skills?” I say.

  “How would I know? I’m just wondering, is there something special you can do?”

  “I’m a luthier,” I tell him. “I make instruments.”

  “Used to,” he says.

  I shake my head. “Maybe I don’t have my tools or my shop anymore, but that’s still what I am.”

  Bones is laying out a square of buckskin on the pavement between the stools and looks up with a grin that makes his eyes go scary-strange again. Too dark. Too deep.

  “Good for you,” he says. “Don’t you forget that.” He considers me for a moment, then asks, “Ever do any other woodwork?”

  “Sure. Some carpentry. My dad was a cabinetmaker. I used to carve for fun—made some great fiddle heads for a fiddle-maker I used to know—but then I got too busy to keep it up.”

  Bones stands up and reaches in his pocket. I think he’s going for some more money, but before I can refuse it, he pulls out a folding knife, maybe four and a half, five inches long. Wooden handle. He tosses it over to me. “Careful with the blade,” he says. “It’s sharp.”

  “What am I supposed to do with this?”

  He laughs. “What do you think? Carve something and sell it. You want my advice, you’ll collect some wood and do your work on the spot. People like to see an artisan actually doing the work. Entertains them. Sometimes they’ll toss you a little coin just because they enjoyed the show.”