by JF Freedman
The dog stood on the edge, growling, his tongue hanging out the side of his mouth with the drool dripping off it, panting like he was hungry. He was—for me. I hated this dog with a purple passion.
“Fuck you, motherfucker,” I told the dog, walking a few feet closer. The dog rose up on its hind legs, barking.
“Come on, asshole, come on out here. I’ll flip your ass clear off this fucker,” I taunted him.
The dog was too smart for that. He wasn’t putting one foot on the trestle.
“Nice doggie,” I said in this real soothing voice, “nice motherfucker.”
The dog was snarling low in its throat. I took a couple more steps towards him. We were only about ten feet apart. I could see the hair standing up on the back of his neck, the black crud on his pointed yellow teeth that looked as sharp as razor blades, even smell his rotten breath.
“Come on, asshole. One time.”
Real slow-like I reached my hand out towards its face. The dumb shit couldn’t resist—it threw caution to the wind and lunged at me.
I jerked my hand back as the teeth snapped down like a vise, the dog leaping at me and missing and landing on the slippery ties. It pawed wildly, trying to secure a footing, its feet slipping through the spaces between the ties.
“Die, motherfucker.” I watched the dog slipping. It was going to slide right across and through and fall a hundred feet to its death.
Except it didn’t. Somehow it got lucky and braced itself, managing to work back to dirt where it was secure. It stood there shaking, panting with fear and relief, staring at me fifteen feet away. So near and yet so far.
Now what the hell was I going to do? I was royally fucked. That dog was never going to move, it would stand guard there all night, as long as I was in sight of it. I was going to have to cross the trestle and find my way home from the other side. I’d never been over there in my whole life, that was no-man’s-land.
Shit on a stick. I took one last look at that stupid dog and took off walking in the opposite direction, across the rotting, slippery ties.
There was some kind of town up ahead, about a quarter-mile the other side of the river from where I’d crossed it. Lights were flickering here and there. I’d never known there was anything down this way, this far past the junkyards. Exeter, the town closest to them, is way the other side, by a good mile or more.
I had some money on me, a couple bucks in washing machine nickels and dimes. Maybe there’d be a store open where I could buy a pack of butts and something hot to drink, like hot chocolate. I struck out towards the lights with my head scrunched down and my hands in my pockets to fight off the cold, which was getting worse by the minute.
It was a dirt road, hard-packed, hardly wide enough for one car to ride on. I had a sour taste in my mouth from all that had gone on tonight, seeing my father with Peg from the bowling alley plus that shit-eating dog. A cigarette and a cup of hot chocolate would burn that taste right away.
The lights were getting closer. Sounds drifted my way, voices, men’s and women’s, and music, too. It meant people were still awake. Up ahead I saw some houses, real ramshackle jobs, the old wood falling apart and the paint peeling so’s you could see the cracks in the wood. I don’t know anybody lives in houses this poor, even out by Lanham, which is twenty miles out in the country, where the real poor kids I know live, the ones who get their milk and lunches free, the houses aren’t this piss-poor.
A sudden gust of wind came up, bringing a powerful smell to my nose. Somebody’s plumbing must’ve frozen up and busted, it was that bad. That happens once in a while with people who build their houses above the ground and leave the plumbing exposed underneath.
Then I saw this little building next to a nearby house, a half-moon cut into the door. I couldn’t believe my eyes—an honest-to-God outhouse. I haven’t seen one of them for a hell of a long time, I didn’t know they even existed in Prince Georges County anymore. My grandparents’ old farm over in Talbot County had one a long time ago when I was a little kid but even they have indoor fixtures now, and they’re about as country as you can get.
It was freezing out. I needed that hot chocolate something fierce, so I moved closer to the lights.
The place was some kind of bar or restaurant but it didn’t have any sign on it, just one bare light bulb hanging over the open door. The sounds of music were coming from inside, some shouting and laughing, too. I’d never heard that kind of music, it was like Chuck Berry or one of those colored singers but more down and dirty, like sex almost, I could feel it down to my balls. It didn’t feel like the kind of place would serve hot chocolate, but they’d have smokes. I’m not a coffee drinker but it was cold enough that I could force down a cup, put in enough milk and sugar you can make that work.
Two men and a woman stumbled out, the woman sandwiched between the men. A blind man could’ve seen they were drunk, drunker even than my old man’s friends and their women companions had been back at the Dixie. Something was seriously wrong with my destiny all around, every encounter I’d had tonight was fucked: my old man, the junkyard dog, everybody else I laid eyes on was shit-faced out of their gourds—I was fated to spend this night around drunks, fornicators, and killer dogs.
All three were leaning on each other, the woman especially, she had the ol’ drunk jelly-leg. They were poor country-looking people, their coats patched here and there, their shoes cracked and dirty. The thing that stopped me in my tracks, though, was that they were colored, as black as the sky over my head, all three of them.
“Hey, sweet thing, pass me that schnapps, would you?” one of the men called out. He had a real deep voice like the colored singer in that movie Showboat, the one who sings “Ol’ Man River.”
“Be my guest,” the woman laughed, handing over a pint bottle which she almost dropped, her coordination was so bad from being drunk. Her voice was deep for a woman, it didn’t have that whiny sound to it like most of the women I know, such as my mother.
My breath died in my throat. I was paralyzed, right where I stood. The only thing in my favor was they hadn’t spotted me.
After all these years I’d wound up in The Heights, on the coldest night of the year. I knew where the regular road that led into The Heights was and I knew how to steer clear of it, too. But I’d stumbled in the back way, thanks to that goddamn shit-eating dog. Now I had to figure how to get out in one piece.
They walked away from me, more weaving than walking, disappearing around the corner of the closest house. I looked down the path they’d taken, then back at the roadhouse they’d come from. Forget the cigs and the coffee, I needed to find the way out of here without anybody noticing me. Even though I knew, deep down, that most of the stories I’d heard about The Heights were bullshit, I didn’t want to get caught and have to test them.
I’ve lived my whole life near colored people and I don’t know the first thing about them. Ravensburg is totally segregated, always has been, just like all of southern Maryland. The only colored people I know to say hello to are the cleaning women who work in some of my friends’ houses, the richer ones that live in places like Cheverly. I’ve never been in school with a colored kid, never been in a movie house with one, or ate in a restaurant that served coloreds. It’s like there’s this wall between us, solid and absolute.
I had to move. If I was caught standing here I was done for. I was scared totally shitless, I kid you not.
Sticking to the shadows, I stayed on the edge of the dirt road, creeping past the little houses. It was late out, close to midnight by now, most of the places were dark, people would be sleeping in their houses, which is where I wished I was. One time I heard a dog barking off in the distance and I picked up a big stick. I like dogs, I wish I had one of my own, but any dog came at me now I’d bust the motherfucker’s head open. My old man won’t let me have a dog, no pets at all. He doesn’t want to be bothered is his excuse, plus they smell bad when it rains, track in dirt, cost money.
If I want something, my
old man doesn’t. That’s the way it’s always been.
Up in front of me a couple hundred yards I could see the entrance to the place. I walked as fast as I could alongside the road towards it. I was starting to finally relax—I’d made it out, safe.
Then I saw something that stopped me dead in my tracks.
Up ahead a little ways a man was working on his car. What he’d done was, he’d rigged his front yard with a bunch of lights strung up on poles, a real rinky-dink job, so that the yard was lit up like a goddamn plastic Christmas tree. He was wearing an old car coat, wool gloves with the fingers cut out, and a seaman’s watch cap pulled down over his ears. A smoking cigarette dangled from his thick purple lips.
The car, this Ford coupe, a ’47 or ’48, was up on blocks. It was factory-painted, the original plain black, with one side window cracked from a rock or something. That’s about my favorite car—it comes with a straight eight, you can catch rubber in first and second both. One thing everybody knows about niggers is they like hot cars. I’m planning on getting myself one as soon as I turn sixteen. Once I have wheels I’ll be free.
There was no way I could sneak past the man. I’d have to wait until he finished and went inside, which was a real bitch because it was getting colder by the minute, it had to be way below freezing by now, I could feel my toes turning to ice.
The man flicked his butt across the yard, pulled some makings from inside his coat, and rolled himself a fresh one. He did it like the experts, one-handed, dribbling just the right amount of loose tobacco from his Bull Durham pouch, licking the edge of the paper like a cat, sticking the thin homemade in his mouth and striking a safety match on the sole of his shoe. He just stood there in his yard like a bird in its nest, enjoying his smoke and fucking with his machine.
Man, what I’d have given for a smoke right then, even a homemade job like that. I’ve tried it a couple times but it’s too hard. I’d like to learn how, though, it’s neat, John Wayne does it in the movies.
I was about one inch away from freezing. Come on, man, I was begging to myself, go in already.
Instead, this woman came out. She had an old flimsy robe pulled tight around her and carpet slippers on her feet. She wasn’t bad-looking for a colored woman, I thought, as I checked her out. About my mom’s age, although I don’t know how colored people look at whatever age.
“You coming in soon, honey?” she asked the man, leaning down close to him, her head under the hood next to his. He gave her a kiss on the mouth, a nice one.
“Soon’s I finish torquing this head gasket,” he told her. “Lookit them stars,” he said, pulling his head out from under the car and pointing up at the sky, “peaceful out tonight.” He wiped his hands on a rag and wrapped his arms around her. “Ain’t you cold out here?”
“Not now I ain’t,” she answered him.
They snuggled up to each other.
I felt kind of embarrassed, like I was watching something I shouldn’t be, but there wasn’t anything I could do but watch.
“How you doin’, honey?” he asked.
“Tired.”
“How many houses you done cleaned today?”
“Three. One was Miz Witt’s.”
“That big ol’ house? No wonder you tired, baby.” He tossed his half-finished cigarette. “Car can wait. Come on inside, I’ll give you a good foot massage.”
“Yeah.” Her voice was sleepy, a sexy kind of sleepy. “I’d like that.”
They went in. My old man’s never massaged my mom’s feet, no matter how tired she was, I know that for sure. I can’t remember how long it’s been since I’ve seen my folks do anything close like that, something simple like hug each other.
The light went out inside their house. I left the shadows and started down the road. Then I stopped and took a quick look around.
No one was in sight. I ran into their yard and grabbed the cig he’d thrown away. That drag tasted about as good as any ever has, even if a nigger had put his mouth on it.
All the lights were out inside my house. My old man’s Merc was parked out in front. He hadn’t put it in the garage—too distracted by his latest conquest, no doubt.
I went over to the car and checked the front door. Unlocked. Jesus, my old man had to have been seriously fucked up in the brain to leave his pride and joy unlocked on the street like that.
It was warm inside the car, the windows still steamed up. He must’ve not been home that long. I could smell woman, the smell of pussy, I’ve never actually smelled a woman’s pussy but I know that’s what it must smell like. The horny bastard would have to drive around with the windows rolled down tomorrow freezing his buns off to get rid of it.
I closed my eyes and thought about Peg, her little titties standing up, about Darlene, about Mrs. Fletcher. Thinking about all that good pussy got me hard as a rod so I whipped out the old tool and went to town, it felt like my whole body was exploding out the end of my pecker as I left a thick wet calling card all over the back seat of my old man’s pride and joy.
March
FIVE
“HELLO, AGAIN.”
I turned with a start. The admiral, that little guy I’d met last month who’d served with Nimitz and all that good shit, was standing behind me with a couple of bottles of dope in his hand. Just standing there like any old regular model builder, not like some famous Navy legend. I knew he wasn’t exactly a legend, but he was close; close enough for me.
“How’s your battleship model coming along?” he asked real pleasantly, like we were two regular guys sitting around shooting the breeze. He was dressed like a regular guy—flannel shirt under an old windbreaker, khakis, plain old shoes. Nothing fancy or important, although his khakis had a crease ironed in them you could’ve cut your finger on, it was that sharp.
“Pretty good,” I told him, “it’s taking a lot of time, but it’s fun. I love building models.” I was kind of flattered that he’d remembered what type of ship I was working on.
“Good. That’s the point, particularly at your age. What are you in for today?” he asked.
“Dope and brushes.” I held up my purchases for him to see.
“Small world; so am I.” He showed me his. We’d selected almost identical stuff.
He paused for a moment, staring at me with this Navy look he had, where you look hard at someone without blinking. “I was hoping I’d find you in here again.”
You could’ve knocked me over with a feather. “You were?”
He nodded. “I enjoy meeting fellow model builders. You’re the first one I’ve met who seems to take it seriously. The first young one, I mean; teenager-size.”
“They’re too hard for most kids,” I agreed, knowing that would impress him—my ability to make grownup models. “Usually their dads wind up doing all the work.” I knew that because Bill had told me, but I said it because I wanted to blow my own horn, impress him; besides, it’s true, I know what my friends are like, none of them have the patience to stick with anything as complicated and time-consuming as building professional-looking models. I do it because I like starting a job and finishing it, especially when it takes hard work and concentration and is something I can do by myself without anybody’s help or interference; and because building models is part of my Annapolis goal, like in my head I think if I build miniature ships, someday I can sail real ones.
“You build them all by yourself? No help?”
“Pretty much. It’s not something my old … my father’s interested in.”
“Sometimes it’s fun to work with someone, though.”
Admiral Wells lived in Washington, on Kalorama Road, which is one of the classiest areas in the whole D.C. area. I’ve never in my whole life seen a house as big and fancy as this one was, let alone been in one; it made the houses in Cheverly, which I’d always thought were the hottest shit there was, look like matchboxes. This house was huge, three stories, all brick and stone, with a big front lawn overhung with oak and maple and birch trees, plus a separate t
hree-car garage.
Only millionaires live in houses like this, I was thinking to myself as the admiral and me drove up and parked in his driveway. Admiral Wells drove this old-time Packard which was shined like burnished leather, inside and out. He’s probably the kind of guy who hand-waxes his car every month. That’s one of the things they teach you in the Navy.
As we walked towards the front door I saw another car parked in the garage, which had the doors open. It was this 1956 Lincoln Mark II, one of the cherriest cars in history, painted a metallic turquoise-blue. My old man would cream in his jeans to get a ride in a set of wheels like that. There’s hardly any around, they’re all made special-order. I’ve never seen one for real, only in magazines like Life, with a movie star behind the wheel, Cary Grant or one of those guys.
“You’re noticing the Lincoln,” Admiral Wells said.
“Yes, sir.” I was gawking, my mouth wide open.
“I’ll show it to you later.” He paused for a minute. “It’s my wife’s automobile. She has an eye for fine things and fortunately the pocketbook to pay for them.”
A colored maid wearing a starched uniform took my jacket. I followed the admiral through the house to the study, which was in the back, on the ground floor. I couldn’t believe what I was seeing, one incredible thing after another, rooms filled with fancy furniture, none of it with plastic or slipcovers on them, and paintings on the walls that I could tell were real, not paintings-by-the-number like Burt’s mother does. Some of them looked like Revolutionary War art, like you see in museums. Pictures of Admiral Wells’s great-grandparents, I figured.
“My wife’s people,” Admiral Wells commented as he saw me looking at the paintings. “She’s a long-standing member of the D.A.R., almost before the Pilgrims.”
He was kind of grinning when he said that, like we were sharing a secret. I don’t know who the D.A.R. is, but they must be important, the way he said it.
The study was a real man’s study, like a duke or an earl in England would have, all wood and leather like you’d expect from an old Navy man, they don’t go in for any of this modern shit. There was a large picture window overlooking the back yard. The grass was brown now and the trees were all bare, but come spring it would be pretty. Lots of flowers, tulips and roses, the kind of yard my mom would kill for; when she was growing up her family always had gardens, flowers and vegetables both. She misses flowers, growing things, our yard’s too small to grow anything.
