Thinking now, Eli, of all the people I have known who I don’t know anymore.
I’m making a Dr. Pepper and whiskey, you say.
Make me one, too.
Perhaps we should situate ourselves in the long expanding mendacity of time. The space between the spaces between the spaces. Eli, might we come to some battle with Cataract? A final end of endings? Much of my day is spent finding something to do with my day. I’m tired. I came here for adventure and ended up with the same old restlessness and desire. I fold up my wings and walk uptown. The saints are born and live and die forever. Sick and blue, I head for the great cock of the city to fly.
You don’t have to go, says Darling.
You know I do.
Go then, she says. But think of me when you fall.
I’ll think of you when I fly.
It is midnight but could be morning. Eli, I’ve wrung my hands a good bit and gazed at my navel far too long. Up there in the clouds I will see the enemy and raise him one.
Do you really need to do this, you ask. Couldn’t you just rent a helicopter?
There are many things I could and couldn’t do, I say.
You know how this story ends.
No one knows how the story ends, I say. Just where they left off reading.
St. Kirk is hung from a lamppost in the waning hours of Palm Sunday as church bells toll the wrong hour. His feet are tied together with barbed wire and his eyes are pecked at by sick crows. His Hawaiian shirt is torn half off. His mother washes the blood from his feet with warm milk.
I take to the sky with my improvised wings. I am above the buildings and the parks full of dying leaves, van Gogh yellows and Gauguin reds. Listen here, Eli. I’ve got nothing on my mind as I mix things up from one thousand feet. My heart is an avalanche of possible things. I see Cataract driving in the sunlight laughing. I see the grey girl and the white waves lapping at her feet. The Holy Ghost sits on her face and takes the Freedom Tower in her mouth.
Might you come down a moment, you say, Eli. You have a child forthcoming.
I’m awakened from my flight.
You are a sweet man, says Darling. Her dark eyes are full of the promise of the world to never end.
Agape, agape, she says. The greatest of these is love.
I fall into the East River and no one bats an eye.
An envelope with my name left by the door. In it a square of black paper. It is winter, strange.
Darling and I walk through the nightly confusion, the red buildings and blue windows. Throngs of literate people in this city, even the man picking up cans reads Dostoevsky. In the skylights of million-dollar townhouses you can see the planes crossing above you like there is no ceiling. When you’re rich, things are easy and the food is better but your soul is rotten. Serve only one master, says Christ. Eye of a needle, all that. But then again—take off your clothes, Eli, and feel how nice these high thread count sheets feel in this strangely unguarded townhouse.
We are maddening in the neighborhood. A film crew on the street, a show about spoiled children. Eli, you go over and scream until they give us a hundred bucks to go away.
I have a vision of Cataract and Nono at a local greengrocers in some hippie Carolina village.
Get in the car, says Cataract to Nono.
I need kale twice a day or my bowels get funky, she says.
There’s no time for kale, says Cataract. Bounty’s worth at least six fucking figures.
You don’t have to curse, says Nono.
Cataract licks his finger to test the direction of the wind.
Yes I do, he says.
Darling and I snuggle in the January snow. We’ve rigged up camouflage around our bed, nicely hidden—bunnies in a briar patch. There comes forth a vision. Cataract exits his ’87 Oldsmobile wood-paneled van and scopes the city. He breathes his smoke on me. I wake to a single blade of lightning.
Two old ladies smoke long cigarettes and sing the “Battle Hymn of the Republic” on the F train. Hasidic families with Hasidic babies pray to the Hasidic god. A homeless girl kicks a drink machine. Somewhere in the Middle East a war just started over a bottle rocket and a wink to the wrong girl. My mind is full of past.
We wake up early in the East Village, where all the good poets died. We go to our boat parked on Fourteenth. Eli, I will grab us bagels. A few coffees, black. Darling and I read the Sunday paper and relax. We are aboard our vessel minding the business that is rightfully ours. I am very much high on narcotics when this woman calls to us. A parking cop. A cartoon of a woman.
This ya boat, she says.
Lovely Rita meter maid, I say.
This ya boat, asshole, she says.
Yes, Rita. I am her captain, yes, I say.
You gotta a license? I’m gonna run these plates.
Ten minutes and cops have surrounded the boat. We are hunkered in the hull.
The fuck do we do now, Darling says.
Gimme your phone, I say.
We’re gonna die, says Doubting Eli.
I just sent Hal and Al Malchow a message, I say. They got the Internet to order one thousand pizzas to this address.
Cops are too busy asking who ordered anchovies to see us backing up the boat, unhitching in the water. We’re pushing off into the Hudson River. News choppers like vultures in the sky. One spotlights us. Our hair going wildly in the wind, we raise sails.
Fire two flares, Eli, I say. Distract the pilot.
Darling, I say. Grab the scuba gear.
The city behind us erupts in gunfire.
Two flares. That way, Eli.
We’ve found ourselves caught between a gunfight and New Jersey.
I take a hard left and we hug the coast. There is quiet out on the water as we see the statue for the first time. So lonely beside the furious city. Tough as a woman, soft as a girl.
We drop anchor and put on our scuba gear. I fall backward into the water and blow my boat a kiss goodbye. A ship so sweet she did not need a name. I hit the detonator and she explodes.
Falling to shore my mind’s made up—love is an unwise and beautiful adventure. Battery Park and we’ve beaten back the pigs. We’re presumed dead. From where we are we have a straight level shot of Lady Liberty in front of us. The Freedom Tower at our back.
Eli, you are first shift lookout tonight. If the cops come, keep them occupied with tales of lunar phenomena.
Take your hand off the wheel of time slowly. We could be happy as children running naked in their first rain. I fill Darling full of love. Her dark eyes look to heaven as if in prayer.
St. Oscar is assassinated while he raises the chalice at the end of the Eucharist. The altar boys think it’s a firecracker lit off by one of the school bullies and continue their duties.
The snow is now coming in sideways. The broken spokes of the wheel keep spinning. A cup of black coffee and the dead famous actor with a needle in his arm. An indecent landscape out there. Not a proper backyard for miles. Down on our knees, Eli, for some heroic sign. A clue to help us clean away what’s the matter.
Strange Spanish whispers from the garbage men. We are broken again. Suffering for food. Unflappable gauchos, Eli, yet Cataract is closing in.
We are tourists on this earth. We get brief access to the fire and ice. There is another message. On a menu at the little French bistro we can’t afford.
I am with Nono, it reads. We’re coming for you. Let’s play a Manhattan-size game of chess. Black or white?
The child pains increase inside Darling. I am filled to the brim with love for our forthcoming family. History is unfolding under our feet. Chasing us. A new Christ for Yankees and Rebels.
We’ve got to mount a worthy defense, Eli.
Are we going to have to get the crew back together, I say.
I’m afraid so.
The Holy Ghost rises from bed and brushes her hair. The light of heaven is heavy in her eyes. She is all the women I have ever loved. She is my Darling, too. There is hunger in the bellies of babes i
n the arms of refugees. There is sand in my toes from the beaches of Babylon.
The planes look like they’re floating, says Eli, but they are moving with incredible speed.
I tell the skywriter to spell out, WE’LL PLAY THE BLACK PIECES. YOUR MOVE.
Nono plays his queen, Darling is ours. Tuesday and Finger are rooks. Al and Hal are black knights. We are playing a human-sized game of chess throughout this island. We pay the local weirdos to be pawns.
The Aztecs believe St. Thomas is their God. I shrug at the coming apocalypse, he says.
12
e4 e5
At dawn they send a Haitian man in a dashiki to Central Park and we counter with a girl in cornrows to greet him. They are young and understand only their hormones. Our first pawns into battle.
What’s Cataract doing here, Eli. Walk me through it.
Control the center.
The seasons are spiraling. The calendar pages are flying away.
What’s the plan?
We wait, you say. It’s his move.
f4 exf4
He moves a pawn, a crust punk, to Lincoln Square. We capture, make him make our beds. My teeth are falling out. I lose control. I can’t find a bathroom. I have just learned to fly and I am falling falling falling and never hit the ground.
Wake up, says Eli.
I was never asleep.
Bc4 Qh4+
They send a Texas runaway to Murray Hill.
We have to send Darling to Hell’s Kitchen, you say, Eli.
Unsafe, I say.
Darling is dog-tired on the bench and her cheeks are pink with cold. There is a brutal innocence to her. She’s a pugilist against signs and shadows.
I am not weeks, she says. I am days away.
I love you, I say. I love you till dust.
I hail a cab and put my whole world inside it. Pat the trunk twice as it drives away. She smiles through the window, her eyes are a pale pale blue.
Kf1 b5
Cataract shifts himself over a block in Harlem. We put an Oxy addict up to block the crust punk in Murray Hill. My mind is of a mind to mind you, Eli. There are fighters in the streets of eerie cities tonight. Spacemen look down on earth. I am amazed by constant human error, the drop of blood spilled on the map to redemption. The deafening death rattle of those dying alone.
We’re playing for our lives here, you say, Eli.
No mercy, I say.
Bxb5 Nf6
The crust punk takes our runaway and ravages her sexually in Gramercy Park. I dispatch Al Malchow to the West Village. A sun-shower looms. The devil beats his wife. A fox’s wedding. Naked rain. A witch brushes her hair. Orphan’s tears.
Nf3 Qh6
Cataract sends a Cuban drug dealer to threaten my Darling.
I will destroy the boy, I say.
Calm down, you say, Eli. They’ll capture you.
She retreats. Her eyes, throughout the earth—they run to and fro.
We’re running out of time, I say. I feel the new Lord crying out.
d3 Nh5
Cataract brings another Harlem girl on the sly to the Upper East Side. I dispatch Al to Hell’s Kitchen. The winds of favor and grace. A couple cries at Papa John’s. There is an accident, child and car. A dog births puppies in the gutter and the man who sells lemons dries his eyes. A girl in a jean jacket smokes and cries. The wind has started blowing at our backs.
Nh4 Qg5
A heroin addict ex-model to Hell’s Kitchen. Her hair in tangles. Her lipstick all wrong.
Send Darling our Queen to threaten them, says you, Eli.
Why must we always use her as bait, I say.
You got a better idea, amateur?
Do it, I say.
Nf5 c6
Cataract moves the runaway down to the Garment District. We dispatch a hustler to block the crust punk in Gramercy.
He’s bringing the fight to us, you say, Eli.
I wait beside the fading bus stop.
Coke for a smoke, says a man in dark clothes.
I keep to the downers, I say.
I got those, too.
He loads me up and I spiral down and return baptized on the side of Judas.
But he betrayed your Lord, you say, Eli. Thirty pieces of silver and a kiss.
Without him nothing happens, I say. We remain unforgiven.
The Holy Ghost blows me on the sun.
1g4 Nf6
A juvenile delinquent to Midtown. Al Malchow retreats. Millions of humans small talk through their day. I’m in the corner watching the paralyzed man roll through the street with his family. Boom and all the dead. He was a soldier once in a war against the domino effect. I remember his tattoo. A naked lady on his chest he made dance when he flexed pecs. Molly, your sister, is here with us, Eli. Her face covered in freckles, cutting herself and posing nude for the man in a three-piece suit.
Rg1 cxb5
A runaway to Morningside Heights and we take the crust punk. The air feels like Amsterdam, where they play chess with all white pieces. Bike weather with Mercury in retrograde. In the ocean somewhere baby tiger sharks cannibalize their siblings in the womb. I ache for God, Eli. Simply put.
h4 Qg6
He sends a tenderfoot to Times Square and Darling moves back to Tribeca. Darling my comfort, my home. Her hair is shaggy in a seventies way. She wears a summer dress and a leather jacket, reads a worn copy of Light in August. Blows me a kiss. The dying sun is so often the color of blood. We would drink milkshakes if we were not at war.
h5 Qg5
A blind Rastafarian threatens Darling, we move her away quickly.
Eli, the children’s hospital is on fire.
Keep focus, you say.
A girl with golden flowers is going cross-eyed.
Cataract smells blood, he knows my child is about to arrive.
Blessed are the meek, says Eli. No mercy.
Qf3 Ng8
Nono moves to Midtown. Al Halchow retreats. There is a siren constant in the distance. Always some emergency in Manhattan. The hipsters sip gourmet whiskey out in Brooklyn. Let them live their ironic lives in peace. Sunny day. Man plays trumpet in the park. A drunk kid dry heaves. His dog nuzzles his arm.
Bxf4 Qf6
A runaway from Ohio comes crashing down to Hell’s Kitchen and captures the Haitian. He threatens my Darling.
Retreat, I call to her. Come close to me.
No mercy, she says. There’s no such thing.
Nc3 Bc5
A white Rastafarian to the Upper East Side and I send Finger to the East Village. He is strong now with his money and child, a tough son with his mother’s eyes. Tuesday is everywhere. She’s always on time.
Nd5 Qxb2
A kid named Choker goes to Union Square. Darling to Harlem.
Are we winners or losers, Eli?
Pointless question, you say.
Do you see five moves ahead?
Yes.
And do we win?
Pointless question.
I get high alone. The sky is a boring blue.
Bd6 Qxa1+
They move a bipolar girl in overalls to Little Italy. Darling takes a runaway and Cataract’s in check. I see flashes of Mississippi. Long afternoons with Wise Jane and Willie. It can be strawberries and weed and daisies. I’ve got a good girl with her heart in the fight. No time for nostalgia. The jig is almost up.
Ke2 Bxg1
Cataract moves to lower Harlem and I send Finger to capture the ex-model in Morningside Heights.
My mind is on autopilot. The moon, Eli. Remember. The tides?
Dark matter, you say. Antimatter. Visible matter.
Who says?
They.
We’re all the they there is now.
e5 Na6
Cataract moves up a break-dancer to Soho and I call Hal Malchow to the Lower East Side. I’ve got a head full of flowers but I am sane. I scale a co-op. It is nice, the warm night, seasons grinding out. Good night to the rich and poor. Social justice is absurd compared to
the universe. We are battle ready. The end is nigh.
Nxg7+ Kd8
A Knight puts us in check. You move over to Chinatown.
I know this game, you say, Eli. He’s already won.
Qf6+ Nxf6
Nono moves to Soho. A blunder. Tuesday captures her.
Be7#
Checkmate.
13
Cataract paces in the jail hallway. He smells of sage and masturbation. Some silver light enters through the window and the jailer whistles “2 Legit 2 Quit.” Tuesday and Finger make out. Al and Hal play thumb war. Eli, you let Darling sleep on your shoulder.
I have a vision of losing battles fought only in dimensions and time. We were two soldiers, Eli, but now we are prisoners of war. The killers and victims unite in forgiveness. The heavens and the earth cleft from each other. We are all truly made from the same stuff. Ashes to ashes. Dust to dust.
Jailer, I call. She’s going into labor. Jailer rolls his toothpick.
Bullshit, he says.
Her water’s broken, see for yourself.
When he opens the cell door and comes to her I hit him over the head and take his gun. Another guard sees us and Finger slams him. Al and Hal take out another.
Snowball will be here in five, I say. Just like we planned it.
I have to find Nono, you say.
There’s no time, I say.
I’m going into labor, says Darling.
You don’t have to pretend anymore, I say.
I’m not, she says.
I touch her belly.
I’m going to find Nono, you say, Eli.
See you on the roof, I say. The helicopter’s waiting.
Maloney, Darling says. It’s happening.
Sophia Page 7
