Bone

by George C. Chesbro

  "I'm neither a reporter nor a spy."

  The cold-eyed man shrugged, reached into his shirt pocket and withdrew a slip of blue paper. "Hang on to this," he said, handing the paper to Bone. "We'll sign you in. That piece of paper will get you lunch and a care package."

  "Care package?"

  "There's a room upstairs, down the hall to your left. Show the guy there this slip of paper and he'll give you some things you may need. Also, the blue slip means you've got a bed reserved for the night; don't lose it, or you'll spend the night on the street."

  "Thank you," Bone said as the two guards stepped aside to let him pass.

  "Don't forget to report that Burt and I are taking care of business!" the young bald man called after him as he walked past the woman with the red-dyed hair and passed under an arch into the musty interior of the armory.

  To his right, men were lining up at the head of a stairwell that appeared to lead to a lower level; Bone caught the smell of fried chicken wafting up the stairwell, and he realized he was hungry. He walked to the end of the wide corridor, stopped at the entrance to a huge hall that was blocked off by a heavy chain secured at both ends by bent, rusted nails. Beyond was the main hall of the armory; an area as large as a football field was filled with row upon row of steel-frame folding cots, each with a pillow, sheet and olive-gray blanket. There was a strong antiseptic smell.

  Nothing seemed familiar, and Bone was certain the stranger had never been inside the shelter. But, he thought, that did not mean that others who were here might not have seen the stranger on the streets, or even have known him. Someone in the shelter might be familiar with the stranger's routine, know where he had slept—and kept his stash. He would study the maps Anne had given him, but he knew he must also study, while he was here, the maps of the human faces all around him, hope that he might catch some sign, however faint, of recognition.

  (ii)

  Lunch consisted of greasy chicken served with two slices of bread, a slice of tomato on a wilted leaf of lettuce, rice, and coffee in a Styrofoam container. The portions of chicken and rice were ample, but the food was bland, and there were no seasonings on the table; Bone noticed that a number of the men carried their own containers of salt and pepper, sugar and even plastic packets of ketchup and mustard which bore the familiar labels of various fast-food chains. Also, there were no napkins, and Bone used a corner of his handkerchief to wipe his hands and mouth after he had finished the chicken. Although his hunger was quickly assuaged, he forced himself to eat everything on his plate; he knew he would need all his energy, and he could not afford to get sick.

  When he had finished eating he pushed away his paper plate, then looked around at the faces of the men sitting at the long table with him, seeking to make eye contact, looking for some sign of recognition in other eyes. But most of the men were vacant-eyed, eating like automatons as they stared off into space at some distant vision of their own, perhaps a past—a wife and children, a bed they slept in every night, perhaps a house, even a lawn to mow. Those who were not simply staring avoided eye contact with anyone, and when they found Bone staring at them they would quickly turn away.

  Since he'd had his hair cut at the hospital, Bone assumed that he must look different now than he had while he was living on the streets; his clothes were different as, certainly, was his behavior. Even someone who had been close to the stranger might not recognize him now.

  But he had time, Bone thought. He had a place to stay, food to eat, clothing and the maps Anne had given him to aid in his search. Most important, he had his freedom. Eventually, he would find a job—but not until after he had devoted sufficient time to going back over all the routes indicated on the maps; as for money, the hundred dollars he now had in his pocket might be more cash than he had had during the entire past year.

  After thirty minutes they were cleared out to make room for the next shift of men coming down to eat. Bone went to the second floor of the armory, to the room the guard named Burt had mentioned. A thickset, unshaven man in jeans and a dirty T-shirt sat on a chair in the doorway, reading a comic book. Over the man's shoulder Bone could see piles of used, presumably donated, clothing—slacks, shirts, shoes, racks of gaudy ties. There was also a cardboard box filled with eyeglasses.

  "If you're here for a shopping visit, pal, you're two hours too early," the man said without looking up from his comic book.

  "Excuse me?

  "No shopping visits until four."

  "I don't think I want to go shopping."

  "What do you want?"

  "The guard downstairs told me to come up here and show you this," Bone said, holding out the blue slip of paper he had been given.

  The man looked at the paper, grunted. "Care package," he said as he rose, went back into the room and disappeared behind a rack of worn shoes.

  The man in the dirty T-shirt reappeared a few moments later carrying a package wrapped in brown paper, which he handed to Bone. Bone thanked the man, then walked a few yards down the hallway and opened the package. Inside he found underpants and a T-shirt, two pairs of socks, a small tube of Colgate toothpaste, a disposable razor, a bar of soap and a pink plastic comb. Bone rewrapped the articles, put the package under his arm, then followed some men up another flight of stairs. On the next floor, across from the head of the stairs, was a large room; upwards of fifty men sat on rickety folding chairs, heads back as they stared at a game show playing on a small color television set supported by brackets suspended from the ceiling. Bone entered the room, grimaced slightly at the strong smell of unwashed bodies. He walked around the chairs, stood just below and behind the set. He looked into the faces of the men seated before him and felt a pang of sadness.

  All of the faces seemed oddly vacant—except for an air of hopelessness, etched in the men's faces as if by some kind of psychic acid. All of the men appeared to be wearing more than one layer of clothing, including jackets and overcoats, despite the fact that the room was quite warm. All were unshaven, with glassy eyes. Many were staring at the television set with their mouths open, revealing black, broken or missing teeth. No one spoke, and only occasionally did anyone move to change position or scratch himself. As he had done in the dining area, Bone stared at the men, seeking to make eye contact. Few seemed to even notice his presence; those who did meet his gaze quickly looked back up at the television set over their heads. No one gave any sign of recognition. After a few minutes Bone felt the sadness and depression weighing on him like a rough, heavy cloak, and he walked from the room.

  At the end of the corridor on the third floor was a large recreation hall containing two broken-down pool tables with ripped felt covers, a ping-pong table and a number of card tables, some with chess or checker sets on them. Bone stopped just inside the doorway, studied the faces of the two dozen or so men before him. One man who looked to be in his early or mid-thirties sat alone at a table, idly tapping his foot and staring at the chess piece he rolled in the fingers of his right hand. The man was clean-shaven, and his clothing—baggy khaki slacks that looked at least two sizes too large, worn tennis sneakers and a pale yellow dress shirt buttoned to the neck—looked very worn but clean. Bone walked across the room, stopped in front of the man.

  "Mind if I sit here?"

  Startled, the man dropped the chess piece he had been holding, quickly looked up. He saw Bone, relaxed somewhat.

  "Sorry," Bone continued evenly. "I didn't mean to sneak up on you like that."

  "No. It's all right. I was just . . . Sit down." He paused, picked the chess piece up off the floor, set it down on the board between them. "Do you play?"

  "I don't think so," Bone said as he sat down at the table across from the man.

  The man frowned. "You don't think so?"

  Bone studied the squares on the board, the chessmen; he picked up a piece that was shaped like a horse, rolled it in his fingers. "Chess," he said distantly.

  "Yeah, chess," the man said in a slightly puzzled tone. "Do you play?"
/>   "No," Bone replied, setting down the piece. "Sorry."

  "Nothing to be sorry about," the man said, smiling shyly. "I don't play, either. Are you a supervisor in this place or something?"

  Now it was Bone's turn to be puzzled. "No. Why would you think I was a supervisor?"

  The man shrugged. "You don't look or act much like the rest of us in here. I figured you might be a supervisor."

  "I'm here for the same reason I assume you're here," Bone said evenly. "I have no other place to go."

  "I haven't seen you in here before."

  "I just got here a couple of hours ago; it's my . . . first time in the shelter. I don't suppose you've seen me anyplace else before? I mean on the streets. Do I look familiar to you?"

  The man in the pale yellow shirt slowly shook his head. "No, I've never seen you before."

  "My hair would have been much longer."

  "No; I'd remember." The man paused, added distantly: "I never had to live on the streets, thank God." He paused again, looked at Bone, frowned slightly. "You don't look like a man who'd be living on the streets, and you don't look like you belong here."

  "Neither do you."

  The man sighed, shook his head slightly. "Yeah. I guess I'm still trying to figure out just how I did get here, how I let things . . . Would you believe that I used to be in advertising?

  "Why shouldn't I believe you?"

  The man reached out to the board, picked up the king and gently set it on its side. "A year and a half ago I got fired. In itself, that wasn't a big deal—it happens all the time in that business. You expect to get fired sooner or later, with account shifts or whatever, and usually you just go out and look for another job. But just about the time I was getting fired, I found out that my wife was having an affair with a guy I thought was a friend of mine. I confronted her, and she told me she wanted a divorce. She asked me to move out of our house, and I did—to a hotel. It's just about impossible to find an affordable apartment in this city, especially in Manhattan, or any apartment inside six months. I had some savings, so I figured I'd be okay for a time, and then I'd start looking for another job after I got over my depression. A week went by, then two . . . and then more. Then a friend of mine hanged himself; he wasn't even thirty yet, and he hanged himself. That really threw me. All of a sudden it was all I could do to get out of bed in the morning. I got sick; made myself sick, I suppose. I just couldn't handle things. And I just couldn't seem to get around to looking for a job. One day the money ran out, and I came back to the hotel to find my room double-locked with all my stuff in it; I owed two months' rent, and I just didn't have it. So I walked out and came here; I couldn't think of a single other thing to do. That was over a year ago. And so, here I am."

  "I'm sorry," Bone said quietly.

  The man flashed a wry grin. "Yeah, me too. I remember reading about this plane load of Russians who were voluntarily going back to Russia after living here—some of them for years. They said they just couldn't adjust to life here. Me, with my hundred-thousand-dollar-a-year job, I couldn't understand why anyone would voluntarily give up the freedom of this country. Now I think I do. You're free here—but that also means you're free to fail; to be hungry, to be sick, to lose the roof over your head. Oh, hell, they're not going to let you die. But here, when you lose it, you really lose it. And you're given just enough to keep you alive, and in return they take your self-respect. This society doesn't let you die; it just makes you want to. So now I understand why the Russians went back. The United States is a tough, tough place to be in if you slip off your rung on the ladder, or if you never managed to even find the ladder in the first place." He paused, smiled wanly. "Hey, but I really think I'm ready to start putting things together again. I'm feeling better, and maybe tomorrow I'll get out of here and go look for a job; any job. I guess I really didn't like advertising anyway, and I think I'd like to work out-of-doors somewhere. I'll bet I'd make a good gardener, if somebody gave me the chance. The thing about a place like this is that you find out a lot about yourself, whether you want to or not. When you lose everything, and you're down to just yourself, you find out how many wrong ideas you had; you find out who you are at the core, after you've been stripped of all the things you once used to define yourself—your job, especially, but also your car, your clothes, your boat, your television, your stereo. You'd be surprised how many guys like me there are in the city shelters—people like the Russians who, suddenly, just can't cope with all the freedom and choices that are supposedly left to us. But we don't have a Russia to go back to; we're 'free,' whether we like it or not. Sure, you've got drug addicts, alcoholics and crazy people here—but you've also got truck drivers, merchants who lost their businesses after sinking all their savings into them, working people . . . and advertising executives. But I'm going to get back on my feet; you'll see. I just need a little more time to get my thoughts and my act back together again."

  "I'm sure you'll be all right," Bone said, smiling and nodding encouragement.

  The man grinned, extended his hand. "I'm Dave Berryman."

  "Bone," he said, shaking the other man's hand.

  "Bone? That's it?"

  "That's it."

  "What on earth did you do to your hands? They look like they've been all mashed up—more than once." Dave Berryman paused, nodded thoughtfully. "Strong, though."

  "I don't know what happened to them," Bone replied evenly as he studied the other man's eager, almost boyish face. "I've lost my memory. I know—because I've been told—that I spent a year living on the streets; but I don't know how I got there, what I did while I was on the streets, or what I did before. I don't know who I am."

  "Holy shit," Berryman said with a slight shake of his head. "And I thought I had problems. That's really heavy."

  "I've been hoping someone here might recognize me, maybe know something about me that I don't."

  "Most people around here are pretty much lost inside themselves and with their own problems," Berryman said quietly. "Like me. I haven't lost my memory, but ask me what I've been doing for the past year and I'd be pretty hard pressed to tell you. That's what severe depression does. The people in here look, but they don't see; they'll look at you when you talk, sometimes, but they don't hear. Like I said, I'm finally beginning to feel better."

  "I'm glad," Bone said simply.

  "You know the routine around here?"

  "I'm learning it."

  "Just about everything revolves around mealtimes. Incidentally, they lock the doors at ten, so if you're out you want to be sure you're back before then if you want a bed." Berryman paused, smiled wryly. "When you live here, the two most important things in life are getting fed and having a place to sleep."

  "I would think that's true of most people—even if they don't think about it."

  "And watch yourself. This place can be dangerous."

  "So I've been told."

  "It's the reason a lot of people prefer sleeping on the sidewalk to coming here; they've had bad experiences. You've got some real crazy people in here who don't always know what they're doing. And there are weapons. Those metal detectors downstairs haven't worked the whole time I've been here, and the security guards don't always search people the way they should. Give a wide berth to anyone who even looks funny. And try not to let anyone cough in your face; there are men in here with everything from pneumonia to tuberculosis, not to mention AIDS. You look like you can handle yourself pretty well, so I don't think anyone's going to try to rip you off—at least not while you're awake. At night, it's usually a good idea to slip your shoes under the legs of the cot, so they'll be there when you wake up in the morning. Put anything else of value right inside your pillowcase." Berryman paused, shrugged. "It isn't the Waldorf, but it's better than living on the streets."

  Bone wondered. "Thanks for the tips, Dave. I appreciate your sharing them with me."

  "My pleasure."

  Bone sensed a presence behind him. He turned in his chair, found himself looking
up into the harsh features and cold black eyes of the guard called Burt. Burt had removed his rubber gloves to reveal thick hands with torn, dirty fingernails. His gauze mask hung around his neck.

  "How are you making out in your new quarters, Mr. Bone?" Burt asked in his rasping voice. His lips were pulled back in a sneer.

  "I'm doing fine," Bone replied in a flat voice, meeting the guard's hostile stare. "And I want to thank you for giving me the paper that allowed me to get the package of underwear and things."

  "Don't thank me, pal. It's the city that's paying for it, the same as it pays to keep all you bums. You still claim you're not a reporter, blue-eyes?"

  "I'm not a reporter."

  "In that case, you probably feel rich with that hundred bucks in your pocket. Still, money runs out. Have you thought of looking for a job?"

  "Yes."

  "Well, we've got a little work-employment program here you might be interested in—saves you the trouble of going out and looking for a job, if you know what I mean. It don't pay much—about thirteen bucks a week for ten hours of work—but it means you always get to go down to dinner right at six, with the first shift. You interested?"

  Bone caught the slight head movement of the man sitting across from him, the frown of warning. Against this Bone weighed his needs—time, and freedom of movement. He had the hundred dollars, but he preferred to think of this as an emergency reserve to travel on the city's transportation system when he had to, and for unforeseen needs. Ten hours a week was not a lot of time, and the thirteen dollars could help keep him from dipping into his reserve.

  "I'm interested," Bone said.

  The security guard grinned. "That's a very good attitude, Mr. Bone. You come on with me, and I'll get you started right off."

  Bone rose and nodded to Dave Berryman, who still looked concerned. Then he followed Burt out of the room, down two flights of stairs to the first floor, then down a long side corridor to a utility room. He took the mop, bucket and rags the guard handed him, then followed Burt down another stone corridor which ended at a half-open door.