Joe's Liver

by Di Filippo, Paul

  “We’re gonna see the General now, Hardy, ’Course, that’s just one o’ his titles. He’s also our Prime Minister, Secretary of Defense, and Secretary of Agriculture.”

  “Agriculture?”

  “We got a bunch of dope under grow-lights. At the minute its just for home consumption, but we hope to begin exportin’ soon, to relieve the balance of payments.”

  Ardy and Mister Simon cross the platform and arrive at a tent-like structure. Mister Simon calls out, “General, sir, beggin’ your pardon, I brung in a new recruit.”

  There is a stirring from within the tent. Shadows move menacingly on the fabric walls. A big knobby hand parts the flaps.

  Doctor Spencer is a mere relic of his former bulk. Emaciated, he wears the loose folds of flesh on his face like one of the purebred Shar Pei dogs he used to treat. He retains one aspect of his last incarnation: a long white follically anchored Santa beard, full of crumbs and tobacco flakes. Half his hair is long, the other half nonexistent, the roots apparently singed to death when the reactor exploded.

  Ardy literally pisses his pants.

  “Doctor Spencer, Herb, I never thought we would stand face to face again. That is, how are you, I can explain, don’t be angry with me for fleeing Boston so precipitously .…

  Much to Ardy’s relief and surprise, Doctor Spencer lives up to his one-time appellation, “The Gentle Veterinarian of Goosequill Junction.” His expression remains calm, almost maniacally so, in fact. Only his eyes betray that some sort of smoldering emotions lie just below the surface.

  “Son, I’m not mad at you. That good old boy who used to fly off the handle has been burned away in a crucible of torment and persecution. I don’t hold personal grudges anymore, boy. No, now I have room inside this shrunken frame for only one hatred, and that hatred is an all-consuming vendetta against the society that turned me into this, all the callous, smug bastards who spit on human trash like me and my comrades. I’ve devoted my new life to acting as shepherd to the type of people you see around you, and my plans do not include hurting you, by any means. After all, you drove the getaway car best you could. It wasn’t your fault you couldn’t pick up the rest of the crew.”

  “I — I’m glad you see it that way, Herb. Well, this has been a fine reunion. What memories! But I’m afraid I have many a mile to go before I sleep, as your fellow New Englander, Robert Frost, once said.…”

  “Not so fast, boy. As General of Humpty-Fall, I hereby conscript you into our noble organization. Pin him, men.”

  Two bums hold Ardy’s arms behind his back, while the Minister of Finance pats him down and comes up with his cash.

  “Very good, men, you can let him go now. Son, we have no room for selfishness here. These monies will have to go into the general fund. Just consider that you’ve joined Robin Hood’s Merry Men. Make yourself at home now, get acquainted, sample some of the slumgullion, and rest up until we decide what your duties will be. I think you’ll find life isn’t so hard here, and you’ll feel like you’re taking part in a worthwhile crusade.”

  Ardy seeks a shadowy corner and sits down for a good cry. After he has sobbed himself dry, he notices that someone is standing over him. He looks up.

  “Mister Mountjoy!”

  The large lumbering patrician fellow looks even more awkward than usual. Removed from his native environments of boardroom and Mafia social club, he resembles a shrub transplanted from a decorative border at Versailles to a patch of dirt in the Bowery, where it receives daily waterings of tears and piss. Mister Mountjoy’s trademark expensive suit is in tatters, supplemented by myriad rags of outerwear. His sad eyes — the dominant feature that struck Ardy from that first day he saw the minimal-security escapee with Roseanna — are more lugubrious than ever. “The Banker” also sports a three-day growth of stubble.

  “Do you mind if I sit down with you, young man ? I’m starved for some intelligent company.”

  “By all means, Mister Mountjoy. Or should I use your nom de rackets and call you ‘Montagioia’?”

  “No, no, Mountjoy’s fine. I’m out of the rackets now, thanks to my son, that little viper!”

  “Why, what do you mean? How is Roy?”

  “Oh, he’s fine. It’s me who suffering, as you can plainly see. I curse the day I ever took him into the business. He showed more of an inclination for it than his old man even. Pretty soon, the number two spot wasn’t good enough for him, and we had a showdown. You can see who lost. I barely made it out of town alive. These desperadoes represent my last hope, and show how far I’ve fallen in this sorry world.”

  Although it hurts Ardy immensely to voice it, he manages to say, “Surely Roseanna would take you back.”

  “That’s what I’m hoping. But she doesn’t live on Beacon Hill anymore. Turns out even Brahmin indifference couldn’t stand before the radiation spread forever. So now she lives somewhere in the city here, I’ve learned, but with an unlisted number. I’ve tried to get it from mutual friends, but no member of either of my old social sets will even return my calls anymore. So every day now I go out to look for her. I haven’t had any luck so far. But it’s all that keeps me going.”

  Ardy wipes a new tear from his eye. “Give me your hand, Mister Mountjoy. I swear by all I hold sacred that I will help you find her.”

  “Thanks, young fellow. You somehow feel like a son to me.”

  “In light of Roy’s actions, I would hope not.”

  “Private Hardy!”

  “Yes, Mister Simon?”

  “Your official orders have come down from headquarters. Youse are assigned to the Begging and Foraging Squad, under the command of Rodge ‘The Shiv’ Mountjoy. Your duties commences tomorrow.”

  After Mister Simon leaves, Ardy lets his emotions show. “Mister Mountjoy, this almost makes me believe again in some higher power that guides our steps! This is wonderful! We’ll be able to be together each day in our search for your wife.”

  “It would seem that a few small things are falling out in our favor.”

  A part of Mister Simon’s speech recurs to Ardy. “Rodge ‘The Shiv’ Mountjoy?”

  “Merely a nickname derived from my adventures in escaping Providence, which I was foolishly vain enough to recount as credentials for entry. Let me assure you that unless pushed, I have no inclination toward violence of any sort.”

  Ardy casts a long glance up and down the outsized man, whose aspect brings to mind nothing so much as a gawky stuffed teddy.

  “Men like us are not cut out for this life, Mister Mountjoy.”

  “We do the best we can, son.”

  “A practice the Digest would heartily endorse.”

  The following day sees Ardy depart the headquarters of UMDPAFLL early in the morning, using another entrance under the tutelage of his squad leader. Ardy and the fellow shambling hulks of humanity in his troop carry plastic, paper and cloth bags which bear the names of various chi-chi stores and products. There is no conversation among the foragers, except for a few sour grumbles about the condition of their feet, or the unseasonably cold weather, or perhaps a few insane curses vented at the uncaring grey sky.

  Mister Mountjoy leads his troop on what is obviously a familiar route, down alleys and sidestreets, from dumpster to garbage can to stack of discarded vegetable crates piled high at restaurant back doors. The men scavenge anything that looks faintly edible, stuffing it into their sacks.

  Gnawing on a partially eaten carrot, Mister Mountjoy says, “The best thing about this job, Hardy, is that you get to sample the finest pickings before they’re dumped into the slumgullion and lose whatever individuality they once had.”

  Ardy delicately holds up a meaty bone between forefinger and thumb. He has seen curs in the streets of the Spice Island capitol, their ribs showing like umbrella staves, turn their noses up at such fare.

  “Must we really stoop to dragging home such nauseating provender, Mister Mountjoy?”

  “It’s the difference between eating and going hungry, son. We c
an’t afford to be choosey, in light of our status as dwellers on the margins of society. Just be glad that people are as wasteful as they are. Why, do you know that sometimes we actually find steaks that have barely been cut into — albeit dusted with cigarette ash?”

  “I can hardly wait for my first piece of minimally masticated tenderloin. Mister Mountjoy, what about sanitary concerns?”

  “It’s my belief, Hardy, that once all the germs on this stuff are in the same pot, which bubbles twenty-four hours a day, they fight it out to mutual extinction.”

  “A comforting theory. But couldn’t one argue that such baccilli might work together to reinforce each other’s virulency?”

  “Don’t bedevil yourself needlessly, son.”

  When the crew is laden to their limit, they return to the underground hideout and deposit their booty with the hobo chefs. It is still only a little past seven am.

  “Okay, men, take five. Smoke ’em if you got ’em.”

  “Mister Mountjoy, I’ve been thinking.…”

  “Not recommended, Hardy.”

  “No, seriously, Mister Mountjoy, what happens with any money that comes into the hands of General Spencer? For example, that three hundred dollars he lifted from me yesterday. If he’s serious about taking care of these poor people, why can’t he use such funds to buy better food?”

  “The General claims that we have to live on these scrounged rations because all the money he collects is going toward some grand plan that will improve our lot in a more substantial and permanent way.”

  “If I am any judge of General Spencer’s predilections, his plans doubtlessly involve large quantities of high explosives, and I for one would prefer daily nutrition.”

  “Ours is not to reason why.…”

  “I am in no mood for aphorisms today, I fear, Mister Mountjoy. Perhaps you could tell me what our other daily errands entail?”

  “Plain and simple panhandling, Hardy. I can’t phrase it any more clearly than that. Begging for spare change, soliciting donations, hitting up the marks, putting the touch on strangers, buddy-can-you-spare-a-dime-ing it.”

  “I take your meaning, Mister Mountjoy. I feel I must tell you that I have no experience with such undignified mendicity, and doubt that I will bring in much.”

  “Just try your best, son. That’s all the movement asks of anyone.”

  “I — achoo!”

  Shifting his uncomfortable seat, Ardy has caused a gout of feathers to spray up out of his ripped jacket and into his face.

  “Son, I appreciate your trying to look the part by shredding your jacket, but you’re ruining its efficiency. The thing’s getting flatter than a pancake, and if you lose much more stuffing, you’re going to be shivering so much you won’t be able even to beg.”

  “Ripping my coat — which, by the way, was a cherished gift from your own daughter-in-law — was not my idea. What do you recommend I do?”

  “Short of sewing it up somehow, I suggest stuffing some newspaper up it. Great insulator, paper. The fourth estate has saved many a street-person’s life in that way, although I can’t say much for their coverage otherwise. You’ll excuse me now, Hardy, I have to mobilize the rest of the squad.”

  Once the troop is assembled again, they exit inconspicuously onto the streets. This time they immediately separate, heading toward their pre-assigned stations. Soon only Mister Mountjoy and Ardy are left together.

  “I think we’ll try you over by the Coliseum, son.”

  “Anything you think best,” says Ardy dispiritedly.

  The pair head west. Soon they reach Central Park. The unexpected pastoral vista serves to perk Ardy up.

  “What a splendid monument to civilized recreational pursuits! The men who planned this must have been geniuses.”

  “Well, yes, Hardy, but that was another century. Jogger was murdered just the other night not far from here.”

  “I see. Perhaps we could stick to the streets on the way to the Hippodrome, or to wherever it is we’re heading.…”

  Soon Ardy and Mister Mountjoy reach a large round building whose setback doors offer a little extra shelter from the biting winds.

  “All right, son, ex marks the spot. Don’t stray too far, I’ll be back at intervals to collect your take. The ground rules for novices are at least a dollar fifty an hour. You’re allowed seventy-five cents a day for coffee. I’ll bring a sandwich by at noon. Probably a mixed calves-liver and radicchio grinder, based on what we found this morning. And whenever you reach twenty dollars, you can call it a day. Otherwise, quitting time’s three o’clock. Is that all clear?”

  “Everything except what I am doing here at all …”

  “Can’t help you there, son, I’ve got the same problem myself. See you later. Oh, don’t forget to keep your eyes peeled for Roseanna.”

  Ardy is left alone. The flow of smartly dressed pedestrians is swelling minute by minute. Every single person ignores him, speeding up their steps as they approach him and hurrying by, eyes fixed firmly ahead or on the ground.

  For a half hour or so, Ardy does nothing but shuffle from foot to foot, hoping that the mere sight of an object of charity will elicit donations. If only he possessed a harmonica, on which to blow some melancholy tune, or a cupful of pencils.…

  Ardy’s initial strategy of mute imploring simply does not work. Once he admits this, Ardy switches to a different tack. He will utilize such persuasiveness that he will reach his quota in no time at all, and thus have the rest of the day free for sightseeing and contemplating his future.

  “Excuse me, sir, would you like to donate to the Spice Island Fund for Waylaid Tourists …?”

  Stony silence, and the wind of a swift-footed passage.

  All right, this lady looks unusually kind-hearted.…

  “Miss, I am touring your wonderful country and find myself temporarily down on my luck.…”

  “Fuck off, sleazebag!”

  “Thank you, thank you for your interest, perhaps we’ll meet under more auspicious circumstances someday.…”

  Ardy’s first hour nets him a quarter, a subway token, and a candy bar. He eats the latter and contemplates riding the subway to the famous Staten Island Ferry, boarding with the quarter, and tossing himself overboard once underway. Only after much mental debate does he reject this pessimistic scheme.

  Ardy adopts a more straightforward, less flowery approach, and his take improves moderately. When Mister Mountjoy returns at ten, Ardy has four dollars to give him.

  “Not bad, son, not bad. You’re getting the hang of it. Persevere, keep a stiff upper lip, and all that.”

  “I’m trying, Mister Mountjoy, I am.”

  Noontime brings the promised liver sandwich with its elegant garnish. He eats it gratefully with numb fingers.

  When three o’clock rolls around Ardy is more than ready to call it a day.

  “Hourly average, one dollar and thirty-seven cents. Very good for a beginner, son. Come on, let’s head back home.”

  That night, Ardy sleeps like one deceased. Just before nodding off, he thinks how apt it is that he is even immured below ground.

  In the morning, Ardy awakes in a pile of feathers. His jacket has drained itself in the night, and is now little more than a Gore-tex shell.

  “Mister Mountjoy,” says Ardy plaintively, stuffing a few feathers back in, “What should I do?”

  “We’ll try to find some stuffing on our morning round, and I’ll keep my ears open for anything good the Rag Squad brings back.”

  Beside a dumpster, the shivering Ardy comes upon a stack of magazines tied with string. He stares unbelievingly at them.

  They are two years’ worth of Reader’s Digest.

  And a prime two years at that, one being the very year of his nativity, 1975, when the Digest, facing a society in tumult, pulled up its socks, girded its loins, tightened its belt, and stood firm, redoubling its affirmation of The American Way.

  Coming out of the happy funk engendered by this portentous fi
nd, Ardy snaps the string and stuffs all twenty-four issues between the layers of his coat, securing them in place with the twine. Now he looks as if he is wearing a flak jacket or a policeman’s armored suit. But he is warm, and, best of all, has reading matter continuously at hand for any rare free moments.

  Ardy rejoins his squad.

  “Son, you look like a lumpy couch, but I suppose whatever keeps you toasty …”

  “Mister Mountjoy, I have seldom felt more protected.”

  Ardy’s days fall into a regular pattern. Searching for food to go into the common pot every morn, and cajoling coins during the rest of the day. For the most part, his days pass in strict monotony. Occasionally, however, there comes an unexpected bright moment, as when he attains his quota early in the afternoon and is free to roam the city, his mind gradually emerging from its familiar begging trance.

  At these times, Ardy marvels at some object he has only read about — the Chrysler Building, Rockefeller Center, but never, never, ever Saint Pat’s — or sits on a park bench in the sunlight and reads a magazine from within his coat. He tries not to think about his long-delayed goal of reaching Pleasantville, assuming that something, as it always seems to, will happen to propel him a little bit closer eventually.

  One day Ardy is working the turf outside the Tower Records Store on upper Broadway, above Columbus Circle. Music is pouring from speakers mounted outside the Store, and Ardy finds himself unconsciously begging to the rhythm.

  “Spare change, cha-cha-cha. Dollar for coffee, one- two-three. Help a man down on his luck, swing your partner and dosie-do.”

  The beat seems to help his presentation — or perhaps it is just that music makes people more generous. In any case, Ardy is enjoying much success. He finds himself humming the tune that plays over and over, a cheerful salsa-rock bop.

  Suddenly, the lyrics and voice of the singer penetrate.