“Why … are … you … here?” Wheezy asked, wheezing in between her words.
“Just make believe I’m a general,” Dixie said, “And I’m temporarily taking over this place for strategic reasons.”
Dixie knew Wheezy had problems breathing especially when she talked. In fact, she gave Wheezy her nickname a few years ago because of the malady. Usually, before speaking, a crackling sound emanated from her chest. Like now. She hacked a bit, and then said, “Very funny. Why … are you here?”
Dixie removed her headset, shut her CD off and stared at Joe and Wheezy, speculating how these two sorry souls had wound up living under the bridge, out of sight, for such a long time.
“How old are you, Joe, sixty?” Dixie asked.
Joe jerked his thumb up several times. “Sixty-five?” Dixie guessed again. Joe waved his hand back and forth. Close enough.
Dixie had never heard him speak. He communicated with grunts and moans, mainly, or hand gestures. She didn’t know his story. No one did, except for Wheezy who was the only one Joe trusted and she wasn’t telling anyone. The most Wheezy ever shared was the fact that he’d been treated for depression some years back and lived in a halfway house on Long Island just before settling in Pennsylvania.
Dixie thought Joe had been a mental patient in a hospital somewhere in the northeast – schizophrenic maybe – thrown into the streets because of budget cuts. What Dixie could say with some certainty was if Joe died tomorrow people in the community wouldn’t know or care. If it weren’t for Wheezy, he would hardly be missed, Dixie thought, as she watched Joe trying to settle into a comfort zone to take his nap on several pieces of cardboard.
Joe reminded Dixie of a Willy Loman character. He probably had a son named Biff out in the world looking for him right now. Or maybe he was a father of five who lost his job somewhere in suburbia and struggled with three, four part-time jobs before he lost his home and his wife and, finally, his dignity and hope. Then he probably vanished from society and wound up under this bridge with limited wants and fewer earthly trappings.
Dixie didn’t know Wheezy’s real name. She only knew her by the nickname she had given her. Sometimes the gurgling sounds were pretty bad when she took deep breaths – a bronchial condition, Dixie guessed, that came from living in a cold, damp place most of the year. Dixie sensed that if her living conditions didn’t change, she’d be dead within a year.
“Why … are … you here?” Wheezy demanded.
“Oh, am I bothering you,” Dixie responded. “You have some place to go?”
“Why are you here,” Wheezy barely got it out in one breath?
“Don’t worry. I’m not staying,” Dixie said. “I’m waiting for Mr. Wolff.”
“Oh, I see.”
“What’s that’s supposed to mean?”
Wheezy just shrugged and looked the other way.
“You’re a mutant,” Dixie whispered under her breath, a term used by the old-timers in town referring to some of the miners who worked underground many years ago. Dixie’s grandfather, on her mother’s side, told stories about The Sakawanna Coal Company. They bought the quarries on the outskirts of Coalsville, making a few people rich and establishing the demographics of the haves and have-nots who settled, respectively, on the north and south sides of Main Street. He told her about the men and women and young children employed as miners who worked long hours and got paid very little. Coalsville was once a gorgeous valley, he said, mostly farmland before the mining days. Then Sakawanna Coal moved in and set up shop, built hundreds of row houses for the miners on the south side of Main Street. In contrast, the managers constructed spectacular stone homes on large fenced-in properties on the rolling greens on the north side of Main Street. A hospital was built nearby due to accommodate the increased population caused by the industrial need for both coal and steel. In the beginning, most of the people who went to the hospital were coal miners who developed wheezing sounds from the damp mine conditions. They were nicknamed mutants. Some died from black lung.
A deep crackling breath echoed in the underpass. Wheezy pointed to where Dixie was sitting and said, “Don’t get too comfortable. That’s my spot,” in such a tone as to imply she didn’t like being called a mutant.
Dixie grunted and swatted at nothing in particular. She wanted to tell Wheezy this was public property and she had no business bossing anyone around. But she didn’t say anything, because sadness filled Dixie’s soul as she looked at the two bridge-dwellers. She took a sweeping look at the squalor and dirt and wondered how anyone could sink to this level in life. A dozen or so plastic bags, some partially filled with aluminum cans, some with clothes, littered the riverbed. Others were folded neatly as bed sheets. Joe was using a 50-gallon plastic bag that was filled with newspaper and hand-me down children’s clothes.
“What’re you looking at?” Dixie yelled. Wheezy looked away and tried to get comfortable next to Joe. “You know, I want to be sympathetic to your condition, but …”
“I don’t need your sympathy.” More wheezing, as Wheezy tried to catch her breath. “You’re not too far from living like this!”
Wheezy’s words startled Dixie. She clinched her fist and cocked her arm, a knee-jerk reaction. Dixie needed to control her anger because it was consuming her sometimes, like right at this moment. Dixie breathed deeply; the extra oxygen calmed her. “You know, I want to be nice, you damn fool. But you’re just a jerk.” Dixie flipped her hand at her because Wheezy was not worth her breath.
She focused on Joe for a second. Sunken eyes. The look of death. What would happen to Wheezy when he died, she wondered? They were sort of a husband and wife team without the marriage certificate. Wheezy had been taking care of Joe for so long, he was probably her reason for living now. She gathered aluminum cans by day at five cents a pop, and begged for money at several corners of Main Street by night, then used the money to make sure they had enough food and clothing. As much as Wheezy irritated her, there was an admirable quality to her mothering.
But cold weather was coming – maybe late compared to most seasonal debuts – but no doubt it would present itself with disregard for Joe’s condition. Dixie thought that this might be Joe’s last winter. She shuddered. It made life seem so much more fragile, harsh and unkind … and uncompromising.
“Joe doesn’t look all that well,” Dixie said.
“He’s fine,” Wheezy replied.
“You know, you’re very … flip. You think you’re better than me?”
Wheezy raised her eyebrows as if to suggest that she was.
“You’re a turd,” Dixie added. “You’re damn lucky people in this town feel sympathy and give money when you beg.”
“I’m their conscience,” Wheezy said.
That comment came as a surprise, yet Dixie didn’t know what Wheezy meant exactly, and didn’t want to appear ignorant, but she had to know. “What do you mean?”
“I’m a reminder of how things could be for them.”
This jarred Dixie’s memory. Gramps used to talk about the Great Depression, when everyone feared winding up in the streets, when Main Street was a conglomerate of failing businesses and bellied-up banks. North side residents scrambled their investments, diversified holdings and survived the crisis, a little poorer perhaps, but much better off than the south side folks who could barely eke out a living. Anyone living on the south of Main Street had to beg to survive.
The worst of the stories of the depression days was told about a south side man who broke into a home on the north side of Main. He stole a little food and some money hidden in a cigar box in a sock drawer. When he was caught, the north side folks tarred and feathered him. The man died, suffocating from hot tar that dripped into his lungs. Nobody was arrested or charged for this crime. According to Dixie’s grandfather, it caused hard feelings on both sides of town, accentuating the class attitudes that still exist. The Southsiders were convinced anyone could get away with murder if you lived on the right side of town.
&nbs
p; Staring at Wheezy and Joe, Dixie concluded there were at least two people in town who were below her on the social ladder. If she could just stay clean for a couple of weeks, she could get a job, or even go to school. She wouldn’t allow things to get so bad that she had to grovel just to stay alive, like Wheezy.
“I’m going to college, you know.” This came out of her mouth without thought. She wondered why she said it the instant she spoke the words. Maybe because her grandfather was on her mind. He believed living in the projects on the south side offered little hope of escaping the bondage of poverty. He also believed there was a better side to human nature and wanted Dixie to go to college when she graduated from high school to explore that side of her. But she hadn’t. She couldn’t. She was too dependent on … other things. Sadness tugged at her soul for not having gone to the Community College like she had promised her grandfather. But she made that promise before she found out the truth that led her to experiment with life and adventure; and … drugs.
Dixie chuckled. “The truth shall set you free,” she blurted out. Wheezy stared as if Dixie were touched in the head.
The real truth was that her mother bore her into this world some thirty years ago without knowing who Dixie’s father was. To save face, Dixie’s mother penned a name onto the birth certificate - a man who had left town and could’ve been the father, but Mrs. Swanson didn’t know. Dixie’s mother was sleeping with so many men during that time; she had no idea of the truth.
How dare Ma scold me for my behavior, Dixie thought. How dare she turn me out because I’m not ‘functional’! Dixie held her head between her hands. “Shut up! Shut up! Shut up!” she scolded herself for thinking such depressing thoughts. She promised herself she would stop thinking about her mother because it would always end up the same. She’d fill with anger and her stomach would turn into knots, and she’d feel like vomiting. She held her ears tight as if this blocked out her thoughts.
* * *
WHILE WHEEZY GATHERED all the aluminum cans in one bag, she held a gaze on Dixie, thinking she should be committed, locked up in loony bin after the way she was talking to herself.
“What’re you staring at?” Dixie shouted.
Wheezy looked away and continued bagging the aluminum cans.
“Make one more pass by Main Street’s garbage containers and back alley dumpsters,” Wheezy mumbled. “I’ll fill two more bags before the week’s done.”
“How much you make collecting those cans?” Dixie asked.
“None of your business.”
“Ten, twenty dollars?”
“Twenty for the cans. And fifty on the corners.”
“No way. You couldn’t lug that many on foot.”
“Believe what you want.”
“You make fifty dollars begging?” Dixie asked. “What the hell do you spend it on?”
Wheezy’s head nodded towards Joe; then pounded her chest. “Medicine.” She liked the idea that Dixie appeared perturbed over the issue that Wheezy made more money.
“I gotta do something with my life,” Dixie mumbled.
Wheezy had seen Dixie drunk, or on something else, in unflattering places, like back alleys, so she felt a grade better than her at the moment, especially since she made money and Dixie didn’t. Her sin, in Wheezy’s mind, was that Dixie squandered her youth and was in no position to preach to anyone.
Measuring her words between breaths, Wheezy said, “Main Street’s a two-mile strip mall … has everything we need … right in my back yard.” Again, she reveled in Dixie’s reaction. Her groan was a tone of respect, almost.
Wheezy bumped Joe by accident. He grunted and waved a hand at her to move over. She shifted a foot, and he moved a little, presumably finding a more comfortable spot.
* * *
DIXIE WAS intrigued at how they communicated with each other. A flick of a finger, a blink, a twitch of the neck or shoulders, all seemed to have meaning.
“Saw you the other night,” Dixie said after a moment of reflection. “I was up there.” She pointed to a tree with exposed roots running along the shoulder of the road. It leaned toward the dried-up riverbed over their makeshift home.
“Why do you park your butts here. That tree is going to fall any day.”
“Provides shade. Protects us.” Wheezy growled. “Been there forever. Never harmed us.”
Dixie was amazed how the tree did hover over them. “I sat up there a couple hours watching you two.”
“That’s invasion of privacy.”
“I saw you bring food to Joe. You were eating pretty late.” Wheezy didn’t respond. “What was that fancy bottle you were drinking from? Wine?”
Wheezy nodded and cocked her head as if she liked the idea Dixie was envious of her late night cuisine complete with fancy wine.
“You helped Joe walk down the stream. I followed.”
“You got nothing better to do?” Wheezy asked.
“I saw you giving him a bath. Heard him complaining a lot. He howled like a dog.”
“The water was cold.”
“Sounded like you were beating him.”
“It was that time of the month for his bath.” Wheezy finished arranging the bags, then tried to settle herself by the support beam. She curled her lip, extremely displeased that her customary spot on the cushion had been taken without permission.
Dixie scrunched her face, waved a hand in front of her and puffed out a burst of air. She curled her upper lip and snarled, indicating she smelled a stench coming from where Wheezy and Joe were sitting. “I think you need a bath.”
Wheezy ignored her. “When are you getting out of here?”
“Don’t worry your little panties off, assuming you have one on. I’m not staying long.”
“Good. Don’t … fart … in the cushions,” Wheezy growled. “That’s where I sleep.”
Dixie looked around and saw a lot of empty wine bottles. “Alcoholic,” she whispered under her breath.
A wheezing sound. “Look who’s calling the kettle … black ... Doper!”
“Aaaagh,” Dixie grunted. Just then she heard a distant sound. A person humming from down the road. “That must be Mr. Wolff.”
Dixie grabbed her CD player and climbed up the embankment a little ways. She spotted Henry down the road sauntering towards her.
A wheezing sound echoed in the hollowness of the breezeway. “Is he comin’?”
Dixie slid back down the embankment and ducked under the bridge. “Shut up, you dumb old broad,” she said, then moved closer to Wheezy so there would be no misunderstanding. “Now, listen to me, you patch of manure. When Mr. Wolff comes down from the hill, you stay put.”
Dixie picked up something from the ground. “I’ll stuff this rotten chunk of pumpkin down your throat if you cause any trouble.”
Joe grunted loudly and flicked his finger.
“Joe wants you to go,” Wheezy said. “He doesn’t like you.”
“Yeah? Well, the feeling’s mutual, I’m sure.” Dixie heard Henry singing from down the road, “Zipadee do dah, zipadee yea, my oh my, what a wonderful day...”
“He’s coming,” Dixie shouted. She started to climb the embankment. “You stay put,” was her last command before going over the top.
Henry came walking by the bridge still singing and humming. All of a sudden Dixie popped out of nowhere. He leaned over and clutched his chest.
“Sorry about that, Mr. Wolff. I didn’t mean to scare ya.”
Dixie looked down and saw Wheezy trying to climb up the embankment, but she was unable to get her footing. Dixie kicked some rubble down from the shoulder of the road for good measure.
Henry stood next to Dixie. They both stared down at Wheezy and Joe. Then Dixie took Henry by the arm and turned him around. “Come on, I’ll walk you to wherever you’re going.”
“I’m going to Duffy’s,” Henry replied.
“Oh! How stupid of me! Of course. Mrs. Wolff ... your wife.”
“Mary.”
“Yes. Yo
ur wife, Mary. I’m so sorry. I should’ve said something yesterday when we … talked.”
All of sudden Henry looked somber. Contemplative.
“She was such a nice woman,” Dixie added.
* * *
HENRY ACTED SURPRISED. “Did you know her?” He knew very well that Mary and Dixie knew each other. In fact, Dixie had gone to school with their daughters. Mary had talked about Dixie from time to time about how pretty she was and wished the girl could get her act together.
“A little I guess. When I was a kid I played up in your neighborhood sometimes. I had a couple of friends on the north side. I’d see her once and awhile outside. She invited me in for a hot chocolate one time. She was so nice to do that. Your daughters didn’t like me, though. Told me I shouldn’t be hangin’ up there. You know … ‘cause I lived in the projects, and all. Your wife, I mean, Mrs. Wolff, didn’t seem to care. I remember the hot chocolate. She was very nice to me.”
“Well, come up to the house again. Yes. You do that. I think I have some hot chocolate in the cupboard.”
Dixie chuckled.
“What’s so funny?”
“Cupboard. I haven’t heard that word since my grandfather died.”
While they talked, Henry heard some wheezing sounds and he walked back to the bridge. Wheezy had run to the other side and started up the embankment where the slope was more gradual. Henry watched Wheezy struggle with a purpose. She grappled and scooped and clawed at the dirt, trying furiously to climb the slope. Henry lifted his hands, let them drop, and then held them out again, wanting to help, but not knowing exactly how.
Wheezy finally made it to the top, huffing, puffing and wheezing so laboriously that Henry held his breath, thinking she was going to have a heart attack or stop breathing altogether. “Can you spare … some … do-re-me … Mr. Wolff?” she finally asked.
“Sure.” Without hesitation, Henry reached into his pocket.
But Dixie grabbed Henry’s arm. “Don’t give her any money. She’s just out for an easy score. Besides, she’ll just buy some fancy wine with it. She doesn’t need your money.”
South of Main Street Page 4
