Caught Stealing

by Charlie Huston

  There’s a C local right there, doors open, and an A express that’s just pulling to a stop on the other side of the same platform. At the bottom of the stairs, I look back. They’re at the top, looking right at us and coming down fast. The A stops. Ding-dong! People dash back and forth across the platform, transferring from train to train. I take us to the right toward the A train, making sure Roman and Bolo see us heading that way before we disappear from their line of sight. The crowd is thick and I use my elbow to make some room for us as we loop around the backside of the staircase Roman and Bolo are on. Around and toward the C train.

  We circle the stairs and, as we come around the other side, I see the back of Bolo’s head towering above the crowd. He and Roman stand at the foot of the stairs for a second, looking for us on the A. Ding-dong! The doors of the C train are closing just ahead of us. I kick out with my right foot and the doors smash against it. Ding-dong! They pop back open and we jump inside onto the C. And so do Roman and Bolo, ducking in through the next door in the car, about ten yards away. Bolo holds up his scratched thumb and gives a little grin like he’s the fucking Fonz.

  We pull out of the station. Russ is spent and leans against me, resting his head on my chest while I lean on one of the floor-to-ceiling poles. Behind me, I hear the voices of bridge and tunnel teens whispering, calling us faggots. Roman and Bolo just stand there at the other end of the car, watching us, close enough to have a conversation if we raised our voices a bit. They seem happy to be close to us and to stay close until we get away from the crowds. The Jersey boys behind us are getting brave, talking louder.

  —Fucking faggots.

  —Yeah, fucking ass-fucking faggots.

  —Look at them. They have AIDS and they still act like faggots.

  Their voices are loud enough to be heard by most of the people in the car and I can feel tension building. Bolo is trying not to laugh and Roman is shooting little laser beams out of his eyes into mine.

  —Ass-fucking, disease-spreading, sick, fucking faggots.

  I take Russ’s arm from my shoulder, lean him against the pole and turn toward the voices. People observe this out of the deliberate corners of their eyes and the tension in the car jumps. Everyone is watching and listening now, but pretending not to. I stare down at the five boys on the bench seat.

  —Hey, faggot’s a toughguy.

  The train is slowing as it approaches the station.

  —Got a problem, butt stuffer?

  They all look the same. They all have the same too short hair, too big muscles, too small eyes, the same pin-fucking-heads. This will be easy. This will almost be fun. The biggest one gets up as we pull into the station.

  —What about it, shit-dick, you got something to say?

  The train is coming to a stop. I look over at Roman, smile at him, then turn back to the boy. He’s still talking.

  —Come on, you fucking child molester. Say what’s on your fucking mind.

  The train stops and I pucker up and make a little kissy face at the boy. We’re two feet from each other. He grabs at me and I kick him hard in the shin. He yelps and I swing my right elbow up and into the hollow just below his chin. He falls back gasping as his friends jump up off the bench and come at me. And all the queers on this train in the heart of the West Village just a few blocks from the Stonewall Inn, where the gay rights movement was born in a transvestite riot, go batshit. Ding-dong!

  The doors open. I grab Russ as we are pulled with the tide of the brawl pouring out of the train. The A express we saw at Eighth Avenue

  is on the other side of the platform. Ding-dong! We plow through the small riot and safely into the A train. The doors don’t close. I watch as Roman and Bolo brutally force their way through the melee toward our train. The doors don’t close. They step aboard at the far end of the car again. Across the platform, the C train still hasn’t moved. I hold Russ tight against me and duck out the door and right back onto the A train. Roman and Bolo don’t bite. I do it again. They don’t bite. The C is still there, across the platform. The fight is still there, going strong as the city works out a little of its sexual tension. We dodge out the door again and keep going this time. They don’t bite. Ding-dong! And I drag us through the closing doors of the C train.

  Roman and Bolo jump off the A. Ding-dong! And back onto the A as the doors slide shut and their train pulls out. Right behind ours.

  The trains run on parallel tracks. For a while our C local has a bit of a lead. But then the A express carrying Roman and Bolo picks up speed and soon it’s running right alongside us. I watch through the scratched Plexiglas window while, just a few feet away on the other train Bolo mouths curses at us and Roman shakes his head. Then they are speeding away, ahead of us on the express track, racing toward Canal Street

  , as we slow to make our first local stop at Spring Street. I ease Russ down into a seat and try to remember how to breathe.

  Russ sits there slumped against me. Bud rustles around in the bag and I unzip it a bit to see how he is. He sticks his head out through the hole and forces it open so he can stretch up and rub his head against Russ’s chin. The train is entering the station.

  —Let’s go, guys.

  I take Russ’s arm and it’s deadweight. He’s blacked out again. I sit back down. The car is quiet, almost empty, just the few people who didn’t get off to join or watch the fight. There’s a little drool at the corner of Russ’s mouth and Bud is licking at it. I feel his wrist, then alongside his throat and then I put my ear against his chest.

  His eyes are open. I slide them closed. He looks asleep. I have to force Bud back into the bag. The train pulls to a stop. I take the bag from around Russ’s shoulder and drape it around my own. I stand up. The doors open, I step out. And all my bridges are burned, because now I really am a murderer.

  Ding-dong!

  Part Four

  SEPTEMBER 30, 2000

  Final Day Of The

  Regular Season

  —Hello?

  —I love you, Mom.

  —Henry.

  —Tell Dad I love him, too.

  —Oh, Henry.

  —I got to go, Mom. Bye.

  I stand there on the corner of Prince and Mercer, holding the pay phone receiver. It’s about 10:30, half an hour since we met Roman in the park. I can’t stop shaking and it’s making it hard to get change in the slot to make my next call. All around me, kids from NYU and weekenders from Jersey are walking the streets of SoHo, asking for directions to Balthazar. I bite down hard on my tongue until I taste blood and the shaking eases up.

  The card is in my back pocket where I put it when I changed clothes at my apartment. It’s folded inside the police photo of Yvonne’s bruises. I fold the picture back up, put it away and dial the number. It rings once.

  —Yes?

  —It’s me.

  —’Bout time.

  —Yeah.

  —That’s some fucking mess you got over there, boy.

  —Yeah.

  —Shoulda called me like I said.

  —Yeah.

  —Got anything to say ’bout that?

  —Sorry.

  —Yeah, well. So you ready to work together now?

  —Yeah.

  —Good, glad to hear it.

  Ed can’t come for me right away. He tells me I’ll have to wait and lie low until tomorrow evening. He tells me where and when to be, then hangs up.

  Every time I get a chance to stand still, I realize how much everything hurts and how tired I am. The wound in my side burns, my face throbs, all my bruises ache and my feet are cramped beyond belief. I stand here on the corner and look around at the normal people who aren’t being hunted by psychotics and the police, and I hate them.

  I stink of sweat and my clothes are a mess. I’m a wreck and I look it and I need a place to lie low and to not be noticed until morning. I eat two Vics and try to sleep on a sheet of cardboard spread out on the sidewalk under a construction scaffold outside the Angelika movie theater
and no one bothers me at all. I’m now homeless in New York and, just like all the other homeless, I have become conveniently invisible.

  It’s not good sleep. I’m cold, the ground is hard and when I do manage to drift off, some pain or other fights through the chemicals and wakes me soon after. Mostly I lie on my right side with my back pressed up against the building and watch people’s feet walk past. I have Bud’s bag half-open and I keep one hand tucked in there, feeling him breathe and purr. I think about Russ, dead and alone on a downtown local. I think about my aluminum bat, the murder weapon, splotched with blood and covered with my fingerprints. I can’t remember if I left it in my apartment or his. No matter. The cops will have it soon, if not already. I wonder if Roman and Bolo grabbed an uptown train back to Spring Street or if they got off at Canal to wait for our train. What will they do if they find Russ? My head is clogged with mud. I wish I had a beer. I can’t tell if I’m falling asleep or just blacking out.

  Yes, I have the nightmare. Yes, it’s changed. Yes, Russ is in there now. I don’t want to think about it.

  At some point, while I sleep, Bud crawls out of his bag and curls up under my chin. When I wake he’s still there, trying to keep me warm.

  It’s light out, but Ed and Paris won’t pick me up for many hours. Bud is making a pained sound and I dig in the bag until I find his little bottle of pills. I hold him tight and force his jaws open and push one of the pills to the back of his throat. I hold his mouth shut until I feel him swallow. I look at the label. He’s supposed to take them with food. Fuck. Food. When was the last time he ate? I tuck him back in the bag, trying not to hurt his leg, and zip him in. Getting myself off the ground takes a couple of minutes. I can’t catalog the pains; everything hurts. I take a look around. It’s early Sunday morning. Little traffic, no people. I love Sunday in New York. The city exhales at the end of the weekend. It’s nice.

  I walk up the block to the grocery at the corner of Mercer and Bleecker. I keep my Yankees jacket zipped way up and I have on my sunglasses and headphones. I try to get some news on the radio, but the batteries are dead.

  The store is empty except for the kid at the cash register looking at a martial arts magazine. He gives me a once-over, but I think it’s just because I look broke. I grab a couple cans of 9Lives, some AA batteries and a bagel with cream cheese wrapped in cellophane. I look at the beer; the coolers are locked until noon on Sundays. I get a bottle of water. The kid rings it up and I pay with the singles I got in change when I bought the tokens. On my way out of the store, I see the papers and remember the games. I want to check the scores, but I look at the headlines instead.

  The Daily News: MANHUNT!

  The Post: MANHUNT!!!

  The New York Times: Suspect Sought in Barroom Slayings

  All feature large reproductions of my booking photo. I glance at the kid. He reads his magazine, not bothering with me now that I’ve paid. I flip the Daily News over and look at the sports headline: THE SHOTS HEARD ROUND THE WORLD! I think about simultaneous home runs being hit last night while Russ and I fought in the car. I can’t bear to read the details of “one of the most bizarre and serendipitous events in the history of America’s favorite pastime.” Atlanta 2, New York 0. San Francisco 5, Los Angeles 3. And I missed it. And now the Mets and the Giants are all tied up for the wild card with one game each left. Tonight. And I’m gonna miss those, too. Because I’m gonna be at a fucking showdown.

  The clock next to the register says 8:22 A.M. I have almost nine hours to kill and I need to stay out of sight until then. I shuffle my way over to Broadway and Prince, just another stinky bum with a bad haircut and a cat in a bag.

  The token booth in the station for the N and R trains has a photocopy of a Wanted poster taped to the window. Guess who? I give the girl one of my twenties and ask for a fifteen-dollar MetroCard. It’s a great deal: they give you one extra ride free. She slides me the card and the five bucks change and never once looks at me. I walk down the stairs to the platform and wait about fifteen minutes for the N and take it out to Coney Island. Where else am I gonna kill the day?

  SPANG!

  There was no one on the train, so I opened a can of 9Lives, unzipped the bag and let Bud out. He went right through that first can. When it was empty I filled it with water from my bottle so he could have a drink, then opened the second can and watched him eat all of it.

  SPANG!

  I unwrapped my bagel and had my own breakfast. It didn’t taste like anything at all, but I ate it in about thirty seconds and wished I’d had another. I drained my water bottle and put all the garbage back in the grocery sack and stared at the advertisements in the train. Dr. Z: dermatologist extraordinaire. Learn English! Jews for Jesus. Get your high school diploma now! It took about forty minutes to get to Coney Island, so I read them all a few times.

  SPANG!

  I got off the train at the end of the line, crossed over Surf Avenue

  and walked along the edge of the midway. The season is over and most of the stuff is closed for the rest of the year.

  SPANG!

  I stood by a fence and looked at the original Cyclone, half-collapsed and overgrown with weeds and ivy. On the other side of the midway the “new” Cyclone teeters, looking like it might fall to pieces any second itself.

  SPANG!

  I climbed the stairs up to the boardwalk. A few of the snack shacks were open and I thought about grabbing a dog. Maybe later. I crossed the wood planks to the sand and walked over the beach to the edge of the water and sat down.

  SPANG!

  I sat there for a good long while, trying to clear my head, to think. No luck. I got up and headed back to the boardwalk for that dog. And that’s when I saw the guy tinkering around with one of the pitching machines.

  SPANG!

  He wasn’t planning to open, so I had to talk him into it. Finally I gave him a twenty and he showed me a cage I could use. A softball cage. I gave him another twenty and he said I could use the fastball cage. I bought some tokens, grabbed a bat and stepped into the cage.

  SPANG!

  I put Bud down out of the line of fire, slipped off my headphones and sunglasses and dropped a token in the slot.

  SPANG!

  The machines pitch Spaldings. A light flashes on the front of the pitching machine to let you know when the next one is coming.

  SPANG!

  I let the first couple whiz past to get the timing and placement, then I stepped into the box. The balls came in just a little high and outside. I let another one by, then got myself hunkered down. I balanced myself just back of center, so I could lift my lead foot before throwing my weight forward. I kept my elbows in and circled my bat. The light flashed. The ball came to the top of the machine and shot toward me. I stepped into it, rotating my hips and shoulders, extending my arms and pulling the bat through the strike zone, letting my whole body do the work, not just my arms. The ball was huge, brilliant white and moving about eighty miles per hour. I haven’t swung at a ball since the day I broke my leg.

  The bat makes contact. The impact makes a noise. It echoes around inside the hollow aluminum cylinder and sounds like this:

  SPANG!

  If it weren’t for the fucking net, the ball would have gone over the Cyclone. And so would the next couple dozen I hit.

  Now the torque I’m putting on my wound is starting to hurt like hell.

  SPANG!

  Jimmy crack corn.

  SPANG!

  ’Cause I don’t care.

  SPANG!

  The balls jump off the bat like they’re scared and I groove homer after homer. My body relaxes. My mind clears.

  SPANG!

  I do the one thing I have ever been truly great at.

  SPANG!

  And for the first time I can remember, I look back at the road that led me here.

  SPANG!

  The long slide of my life from teenage superstar to alcoholic bartender.

  SPANG!

  The break in
my leg that ended my baseball career before it started.

  SPANG!

  The calf that wandered out on the road and sent me and Rich crashing into a tree.

  SPANG!

  That sent Rich crashing into a tree.

  SPANG!

  The girl who dumped me and left me alone in New York.

  SPANG!

  The booze I poured down my throat.

  SPANG!

  The nowhere job that ruined my feet.

  SPANG!

  The cat Russ left me.

  SPANG!

  The bad guys chasing me around.

  SPANG!

  Mom and Dad scared and confused.

  SPANG!

  The friends who have died.

  SPANG!

  Been murdered.

  SPANG!

  The friend I have murdered.

  SPANG!

  All because I’ve spent my time waiting for things to work out for the best.

  SPANG!

  Like I fucking deserve it or something.

  SPANG!

  SPANG!

  SPANG!

  SPANG!

  SPANG!

  And something is certain.

  The past is over. My life will never be what it was. And considering what I’ve made of my life so far, that may not be such a bad thing after all. It’s time to stop hoping things are going to work out and start giving myself a chance to get out of this alive. Because I’m tired of being everybody’s stupid fucking patsy. It’s 11:00 A.M. and I have a friend to see back in town.

  SPANG!

  I get off the N train at 8th and Broadway. The streets are filling now with shoppers and brunchers. I duck my head down, walk along the edge of the sidewalk and mutter to myself. People stay out of my way and make a point of avoiding eye contact in case I might ask for change or help of any kind.

  On 9th Street

  I stop in front of an old tenement building, just around the corner from Sixth Avenue

  . I could buzz his apartment, but he might freak and call the cops. So I’m gonna have to try something else. I walk up the steps to the intercom box. There are four apartments on the top floor. I push the button for the first one, wait, get no answer. I push the second one.