The Hungered One: Short Stories (AkashiClassics: Renegade Reprint Series)

by Ed Bullins

  “Oh, it don’t matter anyway, Dad,” Buddy says. “I got the set and can put it in any old chassis.”

  “Well, leave it down in the hall and me and Ma will come back this evening and take it over to our place.”

  With a turn of his neck, the older man looks about the room once more, then walks to the cowgirl calendar and eases it off its nail and places it under his arm, opposite the politician. Bowlegged, he goose-steps from the room, the ends of the pictures flapping behind the seat of his pants, showing secrets of themselves: cowgirl buttocks, campaigner, silvery gun, IN YOUR HEART, rump, smile, gun, IN YOUR HEART, ass, leer, murder, IN YOUR HEART …

  “You boys sure did a good job,” the mother says when they wrestle the box spring to the trailer, discarding the frame and soiled mattress, promising to get better ones up north.

  Upstairs, the helper looks through the rooms and closets for anything forgotten; he finds the girl in the bedroom changing her pants.

  “Is there anything else, Miss?” he asks.

  “WILL YOU PLEASE PARDON ME!”

  He walks downstairs and approaches the trailer. The gangly man opens his wallet and pulls out several bills and hands them to the helper.

  “Thanks,” he says.

  The tall man nods.

  Before the helper turns to leave he catches the father’s stare for the first time: “See you again, boy,” the old man smiles and salutes with a sloppy wave.

  The helper smiles, nods, pocketing his money, and turns down the street.

  In New England Winter

  We picked Chuck up at noon and drove with brood hanging close to our bodies blended with the sweat. The ’53 burped reliably in its infirmity; its windows gulped the grit which peppered my face, and Indian summer rode with us across the city, a spent brave, a savage to the last, causing me visions of winter in New England …

  In New England winter we played gin rummy and groped nudely under the patched quilt. While we each read the other’s thoughts erroneously, I chanted Whitman as she curled in a corner with Superman and Mickey Spillane. We shrilled from the moment’s gratification under the quilt; it was our bond of permanence in the cold times.

  “Steve?”

  “Yeah, Art,” I said.

  “Feel okay?”

  “Sure.”

  “How ’bout you, Chuck?” Art asked.

  “Great, man.”

  The car turned off Spring and then in and about some side streets before heading again south on Broad. Chuck was a hell of a driver; I was glad he was at the wheel even though I don’t dig him. Just maybe, just maybe with Chuck, I might get back to winter and New England …

  We danced to something called bebop around the potbellied stove in my single set of pajamas, ate like gluttons from her lone pot, and drank a daily jug of muscatel from our mayonnaise jar. The jar was cherished; the common spittle was as personal as we dared be. We loathed to bathe to wash the other’s funk away; each ate his fishends and black-eyed peas and drank when he could, but all nourishment was a trifle compared to our daily fare, for we fed with gusto upon the other’s store of dream …

  “Well … this is the place, Steve,” Art said.

  “We’re here,” Chuck filled in.

  “Yeah … I know,” I said.

  “Sure she’ll kick over?” Art asked Chuck.

  “If it don’t, we’s got a long run.”

  Art and I got out on the street side, adjusting our sunglasses and stretching confidently. We walked around the corner and climbed narrow stairs to the second floor. There were only two people in the finance co’s office; the rest were at lunch like I had planned. I walked to the counter; Art, certain, trailed my heels.

  The blonde had been in my freshman class in high school. Our distance had prevented her from ever knowing me, but I did catch her once staring around me, staring as I stare at the silhouette of my shadow.

  “Good afternoon, sir.” She smiled as she had learned, fastening her stare upon my glasses’ frame. “May I help you?”

  “Yes, you may.” She seemed so fragile standing in my gun’s way, awaiting its punishment. “Don’t say anything … just don’t give me any trouble and don’t say a word.”

  We tied them; I twisted the ropes about the blonde’s wrists so she would never forget. Art gathered the money easily and locked it in his briefcase; it was all finished in seven minutes. The best job was over and done; it was finished and I was done, all over and done …

  Ice grows upon windowpanes in New England winter. The dread of it entering our world caused her nightmares; but, I didn’t dare claim these, so I awoke her and soothed her chatters with the jar. And afterwards, we promised ourselves that somehow we would find a stop for haunting yesterdays and tomorrows which waited to be refused. Our futures loomed bitter and less bearable than the snowdrifts blocking the alleys below; but our fears seared, raging about our souls, fanning a combustion of brutality. As my manhood leaked away upon the wintry streets by day, she cemented together my backbone under the patched quilt through the long long icy nights …

  There were thirteen hundred four dollars and thirty-two cents for my share after we counted the money at Art’s place.

  “You’re a genius, Steve,” Art raved, congratulating himself for teaming with me.

  “He sure is,” Chuck said.

  “Well you guys know what to do … just don’t flash your rolls … and keep your goddamn mouths shut!”

  “Sure, Steve.”

  “Yeah, man … you knows we ain’t no punks.”

  I patted my wallet, making its bulge less awkward, and adjusted my glasses.

  “I’ll see you guys,” I said.

  “Okay, Steve,” Art said, “call when you want me.”

  “Forget it … I won’t be calling … ever.”

  “What d’ya mean?” Chuck asked.

  “I’m through … that’s what I mean … don’t ever expect to see me again … and if you do bump into me, just act like ya never knew me.”

  Art usually knew how to take me. “Well … then take care, Professor.” He offered his hand; I gripped it harder than I should, but it might be the last time I ever saw my brother.

  “Thanks, Art,” I said.

  “Got any plans?” Chuck said.

  “Yeah … a couple … a couple of very simple ones,” I said as I stepped out of the door and shut it tightly.

  Yeah, two very simple ones, I thought, as I stepped out into dying autumn.

  Two very simple ones: pray for winter and head north.

  The Reluctant Voyage

  It was a chill day that I chose to return to the waterfront. My last visit had been long before in my childhood, and now in the prime of life, filled with those romantic impressions carried more than a score of years, I anticipated a day’s adventure incomparable to my now solitary experiences.

  I recognized the cobbled street which ran parallel to the piers by its single track for freight-car unloadings. The street appeared as dingy as ever, but the worn tracks which had before glistened silvery in the sun, were now scarred and crusted with rust, their grooves no longer caught the knives of train wheels but were packed by filth.

  Now there were trucks of all sizes passing over the street, but no horsedrawn wagons were evident as they had been a few years ago. And flaring up, a nostalgic spark relit neglected memories, as I turned a corner after walking hours, and found the ferry-depot boarded up. The ferry, which ran no longer, had taken my loved ones and me on excursions along the coast, and on special trips, to barren sandbars lying off the point. I tried to gather the past images and meld them, to piece them into some beloved whole, but the great red and white sign of the boat station distracted me. It hung askew, slapping the side of the long, covered wharf, above the grey waves which approached the structure like hunters, dark and shadowy, stalking their prey until, too near to restrain themselves, they rose up and heaved frothy white with a rush and dashed terribly about the building’s supports, trying vainly to pull it f
rom its foundation, to swarm over it, drowning and stomping it.

  Even the gulls had deserted this area and remained at nest today. The cold was severe, but I knew that gulls do not easily surrender to nature. I had once seen one of these strong flyers farther north, in a place where fresh water comes to meet the sea; the poor creature had assumed that all water is the same. In the cold of the day, it had lazed like a duck upon the serene surface of a lake until the water had frozen, trapping the white soarer in the ice. I watched the bird from ashore and felt pangs of conscience with each scream from it, for I was unable to aid it; the ice was not strong enough to support my weight. I watched the bird beating its helpless body with its single wing which had not frozen into the lake also; it stretched its white neck to the heavens, attempting with all its energies to break from the hardened water, but the skies waited without caring, not welcoming the creature to release itself into the vastness of freedom as the bird had previously done. And even its excited squawks finally seemed to fly back into the captive’s throat, for the winds arose and blustered across the icy landscape, sweeping all petty things back and away. I abandoned the creature to the lake and had not thought of it until now, probably because a gull-less waterfront is quite unnatural.

  “Get out of the doorway, you there!” a voice boomed behind my back. I started as I would have done as a youth and became angered that someone would use a tone of voice to me in that manner. I spun around.

  He stood tall and dour. His pea jacket seemed to be a casing enclosing a steely rod. As I turned upon him, he only stared past me to the boarded doorway.

  “Is that any way to speak to a man, sir?” I asked.

  “I have my ship to meet, young man; please get out of my way.”

  I looked into his face which was clean-shaven but shadowy grey from a perpetual beard. His eyes were as grey as his chin and frosty drifts of white brows piled at the bottom of his forehead in an unbroken snowy turf.

  “I’m sorry to have delayed you, sir,” I said. “Are you sure this is the correct wharf? This place doesn’t appear to have been used for years.”

  He didn’t reply but brushed me rudely aside, pulling what appeared to me a small dogcart, the type I had seen during my last voyages through the eastern islands. The gaunt figure took the rusted handle in his long hand and pulled the great double doors apart as easily as I draw open my cupboard. The tearing of weathered nails and the splintering of lumber might have been only a squeaky hinge to the pea-coated man. After he had thrown the doors apart, he entered through and called to me over his shoulder.

  “What are you waiting for, mate? We haven’t forever!”

  I followed him, my hopes for adventure seemingly realized. We walked through the long shed to the opposite doorway which was the exit to the boat landing. The tall stranger pulled these doors open as simply as the first. The clouded daylight startled me, though the walk through the black building had only taken a few moments. The man was pointing out to sea as my eyes adjusted to the glare.

  “Look,” he said. “For that, I came so far.”

  Upon the horizon was a speck with a puff of black smoke trailing it.

  “They’re burning too rich a mixture in their fires,” I said.

  “Yes, mate,” he said. “They are eager to see their captain.”

  I looked about the pier, watching the waves lunging up to grab the rotting wood. In some places the pursuers had clutched sections and dragged them down; I saw the face of the sea through the holes, as the currents stalked back and forth as hungered as sharks, and I shuddered to think of being in their jaws.

  “The ship is here,” the captain shouted to me above the harsh call of the waves. I knew he was mistaken, for the ship had not time to cross the distance. But it was there when I looked again back in its direction, tied up with gangplank lowered.

  “Quickly, mate,” the captain said and rushed forward, pulling his cart, inviting disaster, unmindful of the many traps gaping through the dock. I sped after him, running with all of my strength, but he easily beat me to the gangplank, even pulling lengths ahead of me, though I am a hearty sprinter, as I put on a killing burst of speed toward the last. He awaited me; and when I came up to him he put his hand against my chest and pushed me back.

  “Hold up a moment, man,” he said. “There’s someone coming over the side.”

  I blew like a horse with steam flying from my nostrils and with body heaving. I wanted to tell him I was not coming aboard, but I had no breath to expel the message.

  From down the gangplank raced a young man of my age, dressed in whites. He saluted aft and then to the captain, in two quick motions, and extended his hand to me saying, “Good voyage, mate.”

  “But, I’m not going aboard,” I said to the man in whites. “And why are you wearing your summer uniform in such vicious weather?”

  “It’s as it has to be,” he said. “Don’t worry, I’ll remain here at the pier and stand by.” He hefted a life preserver and played out its long rope and made several vigorous movements, testing the line’s elasticity.

  The tall man, whom I had ignored, took my hand and dragged me up the gangplank. I struggled with him, for I can be a wolf when enraged, but I was a helpless being in his grip. He pulled me and the cart along together. Then the gangplank sped up after us, almost knocking me aside, before the captain had completely towed me upon deck.

  “I don’t want to come aboard,” I shouted at him. He unloosed his grasp upon me and bounded to the pilothouse. The ship was already under way, drawing swiftly from land. The young sailor, left behind, ran back and forth upon the pier waving, hailing, indicating the line still in his hands.

  “I don’t want to go with you,” I screamed toward the bridge. “Turn back!”

  The land had now almost descended into the obscurity of twilight and distance. I sprang to the rail and threw off my jacket and shoes. I knew that I must leap from the side, cutting the water cleanly and deep, far under and away from the ripping ship’s screws.

  I held my breath and braced, waiting for the ship to keel toward leeward so that I could dive safely ahead of the waves which would soon pound against the hull. But before I leaped, I looked into the cold, grey face of the sea bulging like a grim, billowing curtain which waited to surely shade me forever, and then I knew that I would never leave this ship until its master willed. And before I sank back to the deck, to lie wallowing aghast against the gunnels, welcoming the waves to break coldly over me but unable to snatch me away, I looked toward the bridge where my captain stood. He was staring with vacant, grey eyes seaward toward the bitter horizon.

  Travel from Home

  August showers scalded our streets during the days, and the nights were without sleep from the steam and sweat. Groups of black figures crouched on each doorstoop, muttering among themselves, their eyes lit by the insect-fanned streetlights, but some pulled down long draughts from half-hidden bottles and wine jugs, and others embraced and groped, waiting for the hour before dawn when they could return to bed.

  “C’mon, make dat point, mother!” Little Willy moaned.

  “Can’t beat you and yo prayers too, little nigger,” Big Willy growled.

  “Sev-vannn … mama … sev-vannn … haaahhh …”

  Little Willy made his point.

  The summer night crap game under the streetlamp was ending; the money was as tight as our tensions.

  Some of us don’t play, just stand on the corner under the light, ready to signal our boys when the cops cruise up, before their blue and grey pig eyes saw what they knew would be there, and before they leaped from the patrol car, scattering us into the shadows, and then picking up the coins left in the lighted circle of emptiness. And some of us only waited for the moment.

  It was about three when he passed across the street in front of the billboard, head held stiffly, feet padding along like a penguin’s. Eyes watched the pale stranger cross the billboard front, step into Cadence Street, no bigger than most alleys, and waddle up on t
he curb on the far side and pass the hollow windows of the vacant butcher shop.

  “Da ho’ays, must’ta turned dat trick out early,” Red said, watching him, noticing his hurried movements. He saw me check out the stranger. “Let’s take him, Chuck,” he said, then waiting for my move, sprang off at a lope.

  I jogged behind, hearing Little Willy holler, “C’mon, mother,” and tested the looseness of my legs.

  He heard us and tore out in a dash. And we were after him. Red and I started pumping hard but still allowed him to keep his lead, waiting for his flabby legs to give. At the corner he turned, stretching out for the long straightaway up 13th Street hill.

  When we hit the corner he was a third up the block, and the incline of the night street was clear before us except for the galloping figure, and I knew the race was mine.

  “Turn it on, Chuck,” I heard Red yell as I passed, my shirt waving behind, the blackness of night and revenge in my conked red mop.

  Eyes on the doorstoops followed us, bearing down with me on the victim in that good race. The air in its summer heaviness pushed, the moist tone and taste of night in city without trees or grass was what mingled with the funk of sweat and terror. The air weighted my lungs and held back his thick body. Our distance tightened like the raw lips of a wound; the far corner was a third of a block away, but I knew that I would see his blood before he reached the intersection.

  He staggered, jerking his legs in a frantic effort to find control, and then he sprawled beside a trash can, his arms coming up, using the can of filth for support. I smashed my fist aside his head before he came off his knees; he rolled with some cans as they spilled across the curb; he wailed, kicking out at shadows. Red came puffing up and planted one of his long “old folks’ comforts” in a kidney.

  “OH LORD …” the stranger screamed. “OH LORD JESUS!”