Memos From Purgatory

by Harlan Ellison

  I wasn’t there, but when I heard the story, told with mass braggadocio, with much laughter, my blood ran slower in my veins.

  I’m short, five five, and a Jew, and either one of these is reason enough to get pounded. Silence fed my fear. I listened to them, and hated them right then.

  The Negro’s skull had been fractured, both hands had been broken, and his body was a mass of welts from chest to pelvis. The late afternoon papers reported he was in critical condition, and the entire left side of his face had been totally paralyzed.

  The police had gotten a tip, however, and they tracked down two of the guys who had done the job on the kid. The boys were both taken into custody. That didn’t help the Negro kid, much. He got out of the hospital in three months.

  But his face, from reports, still sags a little on the left side, where it was paralyzed.

  Few of the Barons were idle. Some of them had taken the tots in hand, and in vacant lots, rooftops and basements they were showing them how to fight (thus does the evil perpetuate itself). Most of them held down steady jobs; they relied on their facility as burglars and lush-muggers (bop-droppers, in the vernacular) to augment their incomes, however, for the bulk of their earnings went to the head of the family. But the balling money came from the sweat of their own little brows in the streets and alleys.

  But during these long, electricity-filled days the Barons stayed away from school, away from their jobs, away from Ben’s Candy Store—far away from any known resting place where an anxious Flyer commando group could find you. They also stayed cold away from Flyer turf, as conscientiously as the Flyers made sure not to inch over into Baron country; there was no sense pushing for unneeded trouble; there would be enough bopping shortly; and if you got caught and stomped, that was one cat less for your team when the big noise came.

  And the neighborhood…

  What of the neighborhood?

  How do the older residents, the police, the storekeepers feel? Do they know what is about to happen?

  The neighborhood…

  During the days, the kids hang around the steps of the brownstones, in softly-talking groups of ten and fifteen. The old women do not come out on the steps to take the sun; the lazy building-janitors stay in their cool basements, in their T-shirts, in their beard stubble, in their bottles; drugstore owners do not send out their young assistants to roll down the awnings; outdoor hot dog stands find business at a standstill; younger fathers and businessmen look tired and resigned; mothers find themselves arguing more and more with their daughters about going out; little Polish women with market bags hurry to the grocery and back, making sure they keep to well-lighted, crowded streets; people cross the avenue when a gang of kids comes around the corner.

  Beer cans fall out of windows more and more frequently, and every time the clang hits the pavement, someone jumps and looks frightened.

  Things tighten up; nerves fray and part.

  Entering any of the neighborhoods in Flyer or Baron turf, you can feel the heat of terror, the pulse of expectancy.

  Owned and protected by the gang, each member becomes part of a great illicit gestalt, and when one snaps, they all snap; when one laughs, they all laugh; when one smacks his palm with a moist fist, so do they all. It is the eggshell thinness of emotions, the throat-drying waiting.

  And the police are helpless.

  A Brooklyn beat cop phones in and says, “Something’s wrong out here in Red Hook. I don’t know what, but I think the kids are starting to shake. It might be a big rumble. Maybe we need some help out here.”

  So more prowl cars come in, and nothing’s wrong.

  Nothing at all. Not a sound, not a sight, not a drop of a pin. Nothing’s wrong:

  Except that the entire area is about to explode, and blood will run into the storm drains.

  All that, in the rumble. The rumble, so psychologically satisfying to the immature mind of the young tough. It provides for him the adventure of an escapade that will liven up an otherwise humdrum existence. It is packed with all the drama, danger and romance the movies and TV have come to associate with war and killing. It allows him to show his stuff. It’s the feudal joust, with the protection of all his buddies. No one can die…that’s the philosophy. No one can die, or really be hurt, or get stomped bad. It’s the war, and right will win.

  Right, in the ethic of the gang kid, is easily equatable with might. The team with the most players takes the ball game. But no one dies…

  On Sunday night, Pooch called a full meeting, and everyone showed. They had to show or be called chicken. It was the time for assigning of positions in the battle order, and every stud was afraid he would get picked for first rank, charging right into the Flyers at full strength.

  I had been having strange dreams, all the week before. I’d felt something terrible would happen to me if I went on that rumble. But there wasn’t much I could do about it. I had to show up…for many reasons. Not only would I lose face with the Barons, not only would my researches come to an end, at that most crucial point when I felt I might find out my “moment of truth,” a rationale for what these kids were doing to their lives, but it had grown to mean something to me personally. My strength, my own face, my status and my own personal evaluations of my courage, all of them were in my hands, to examine, to test, to finally, after all the years of wondering, know in the extreme. How would I work in the field. Would I run…would I stand…or would neither come to me? It was a crossroads, and I knew I had to go the route. All the way.

  And there was Filene, who had come to mean quite a bit to me. We had been together almost constantly, every evening since my initiation. Kindness and even a semblance of what she thought was love had done wonders with her. She smiled frequently now, and talked, and no longer carried the halting motions and tones of a young girl afraid of the light as well as the dark. She was fast becoming a woman. I didn’t want to let her down.

  Candle, however, did not show. His bad standing with the club had grown so deep since our fight, that he had decided to get away from the turf and the Barons before the humiliation of official ejection could be suffered. Fat Barky, however, either through stupidity or stubbornness, was not only present, but making an ass of himself by declaring to anyone who would listen, “I’m gonna bust their asses in half!” No one doubted he could do it, they just didn’t want to hear about it.

  Everyone was keyed tight. There was a great deal of semi-hysterical laughter, and I could see one large group in the far corner puffing tightly, drawing down and holding, reefers and pot smoke.

  Pooch was talking to Mustard and Fish, and when he saw me come in with Filene, he motioned me to join him. I told Filene to stay away from the bunch who were winging it on marijuana, and went to the Prez.

  “We got trouble,” he told me, as I came up to them.

  I could see worry on his face, through the smoke.

  “What’s the matter?”

  “They picked off Willyum, was goin’ down to the store, some shit like that, they picked him off, don’t even know where he is!” He smacked a fist into his palm.

  “You wanna be War Counselor?” he finished. I stared at him, uncomprehending. What had happened to Willyum?

  Fish turned to me; he knew me a little better than Pooch, and he clarified. “Flyers, man. They caught Willyum someway, he was goin’ down to the store for his old lady and they jumped him outta’a car, he’s gone, man. We don’t know where.”

  Willyum had been one of the three head War Counselors of the Barons. He had been abducted, apparently by a Flyer trouble squad. It was a very nice trick; it had much the same effect (I’m led to understand) of killing the Chief of an attacking party of American Indians. Or something. Whatever the history of the maneuver, it had served to unnerve the Baron hierarchy, and they wanted to cover before the rest of the fighting force found out. So they would slip in a new War Counselor. Me. All right, what was there to lose? All I had to do was come up with tactics, and in this social set that shouldn’t be too
difficult.

  “Okay, I’ll be a Counselor.”

  Pooch slugged me lightly on the arm.

  Camaraderie was the order of the day.

  Pooch called them to attention, finally resorting to swearing when several cliques would not cut the clamor. When they were all settled, he did his best to call the roll, and then gave them the few latest bits of information that spies and neighborhood hangers-on had been able to concoct or actually ferret out. He did not mention the missing Willyum. Then he announced me as the new War Counselor, with some half-witted alibi about Willyum having to leave town with his parents. Nobody said anything, but neither did they seem to swallow the story. Willyum’s parents hadn’t spoken to each other in ten years; both were chasers. But I was installed as War Counselor and except for Flo, Fat Barky and several other kids whose dislike I’d engendered, it seemed to be a happy announcement.

  I got some applause, and they demanded I make a speech, so I mouthed some bloody platitudes about creaming the Flyers and regaining control of bits of turf we’d lost over the years, etcetera, etcetera. It wasn’t the Gettysburg Address, but it was apropos.

  Pooch concluded the meeting with a stern warning to all the studs, “An’ stay away from the Lucy and the shit. I don’t want none of you out of action f’r t’morrow.” And with that stern warning to avoid liquor and narcotics, Pooch closed the meeting.

  Filene came over to me and hugged me, congratulating me on my new position in the gang, and we made to leave. Mustard grabbed my arm as I went past, and leaned over to whisper in my ear.

  “We’re havin’ a blast over t’ Flo’s pad, her folks is outta town’r somethin’. Wanna make it?”

  I hadn’t been at a full-fledged gang brawl yet, and the idea appealed to me. I said fine, we’d show, and Filene followed me out of the basement, and then to the street. I asked her if she wanted to go to the party and she said anywhere I went, she’d go. Since we couldn’t wander the streets in that atmosphere, we sat around on the upper landing of a tenement for a half hour, not wanting to be the first ones there, and then made it up to Flo’s parents’ apartment, in one of the old brownstones on the Avenue. It was on the fourth floor, and from the second floor up we could hear the noise. When we knocked, the door swung inward without being opened. The smoke was so dense I could only make out forms, not faces. The sweet, sticky smell of pungent pot being smoked was high in the room. I could hear glasses clinking, and shrill screams of happy, hysterical chicks. The joint was truly swinging. Over in the corners—as my eyes grew accustomed to the smog—studs were exploring the anatomies of their Debs, and there wasn’t a bare area of the room in which a person could light. Filene and I stepped over a pair of lovers necking on the floor, and around two toughs who were Indian-wrestling North Woods style. We got into the room, and Mustard came out of the kitchen with Flo on his arm. Her blouse was open to the waist.

  “Hey, man!” he greeted me. I grinned back. The smell of pot was making me sick. I wanted to leave.

  Filene pulled my head down and she whispered in my ear, “If Poochie finds out about this, he’ll be really sore.” I nodded and gave her a kiss on the cheek, trying to reassure her.

  To be sure, Pooch would split a gut. He’d told them to keep away from junk and juice, and here they were getting themselves put out of commission even before the fight had started. I felt uneasy about being there, but with half the Barons in the room, it didn’t figure that I’d be singled out for retribution, should Pooch make the scene. And I had a hunch Mustard and Flo and the rest had taken great care to keep Pooch in the dark.

  “Where’s the beer?” I asked a boy named Kurt, who was putting a stack of 45’s on the record player. He jerked a thumb toward the bathroom, and I left Filene to get us each a brew.

  They had the tub filled with ice cubes, and perhaps three cases of Rheingold chilling. I took out a couple of cans and used the opener on the sink-edge, noting that the boys had started drinking early, before the beer was cold, for spray marks of warm brew were all over the wall.

  I threaded my way back through the revelers (over-hearing much bravado in the conversations), and handed Filene her beer.

  Someone shouted happily (if a bit drunkenly) from the kitchen, and I edged to see what was happening. They were whomping up a batch of home-brewed hootch, Sneaky Pete, in there, and the pot had boiled over, further decorating the walls with slimy, off-green liquid. Pete (often strained through a loaf of rye bread to distill it) is guaranteed to put hair on a woman’s chest, cause a horse to get the blind staggers and start walking backward, make a man go insane or a fruitcake stable. I’ve heard of Sneaky Pete turning a cat blind, and of starting another’s guts to running counter-clockwise, they dug it so much.

  Pooch had been wise in advising them all to stay away from artificial stimulants. He didn’t want any of his good men juiced up in some alley or doorway. I took my beer, pulled Filene after me, and hunkered down just behind the door to the apartment.

  About one o’clock, after we’d had two phone calls from the neighbors threatening to call the fuzz (which they would never do—they knew better), I was half-bored and half-asleep, about ready to cut out, when the door banged open by my head and the Executive Council came storming in.

  Pooch came on like he was wearing seven-league boots, and had smashed half a dozen glasses of juice out of guys’ hands, before they even knew he was in the room. I sat very quietly, pulling my legs into the little area behind the door, and hugging Filene close to me, trying to be as inconspicuous as possible.

  Pooch caught sight of Mustard, half decked-out with a reefer in his jaw, and snapped his fingers for Fish and one of the other boys to grab him. They caught Mustard by the biceps and dragged him to his feet, dumping Flo to the floor. She just lay there. I don’t know what she had been popping, but it had turned her off completely.

  Fish and the other stud held Mustard up between them, and Pooch came over, grabbing a fistful of the boy’s blonde hair. He dragged his head up and swept the reefer from Mustard’s mouth with a backhand slap. It jarred Mustard’s head and his eyes started to focus. He tried to pull loose, and the two side-boys gripped him all the tighter.

  “Man, I told you…” Pooch explained.

  Then he drew back his fist and drove it into Mustard’s gut. He did it again. Then he did it again. He began to systematically, scientifically, beat the living crap out of one of his own War Counselors.

  Everyone’s attention was riveted to the scene of brutality in the far corner of the room, and I took that moment to haul Filene to her feet, and slip around the open door, out into the hall, and down the stairs.

  The last thing I saw was Mustard blacking out, slipping loose between the two guards and being allowed to fall in a nasty heap. As we sneaked down the stairs, I heard Pooch’s voice, vicious and compelling, advising them to, “Hit for home before the rest of you bastards get it!” We were in a doorway next to Flo’s building as the rest of the party broke down the stairs and scattered in all directions.

  Thus was justice meted out in the world of the kids.

  I couldn’t agree with the manner in which it had been dealt, but there was no denying it was the most effective way of making an example of Mustard. They would all be straight the next day.

  Monday was murder. It was difficult to speak, and even more difficult to stand up. My knees had a tendency to shake, and nothing I thought or said seemed to have much validity. I’d been having the dreams again; wet, red dreams, and I was the central figure. I called my agent and spoke to him for a few minutes, telling him what was happening and how I was getting along; he sounded worried.

  But not half as worried as I sounded.

  At nine o’clock, almost as though a soundless chime had been struck in everyone’s head, the full membership, including Squirt groups, Debs and allies, met in the club rooms. Pooch made a few remarks about Puertos and what we would do to them. They sounded hollow and phony. Everyone was scared witless, no matter what outer fa
çade was worn.

  Then the weapons were passed out.

  Mustard, who had been in the first rank, was not on the scene. I wondered what had happened to him. I hadn’t thought Pooch had mussed him up that much, but apparently his loyalty had gone South. I was ordered into the front rank of attackers. Filene’s mouth went slack and her eyes became moist as she heard Pooch tell me. I didn’t say anything. I was beyond complaining.

  They handed out the weapons, then.

  Fish gave me a .30-.30 but I handed it back. “I can do better with these,” I said, pulling out a vicious pair of knucks constructed from little steel cubes mounted on an iron bar, and wound with friction tape. “And this,” I showed him the bayonet.

  The knife was a formidable thing, originally used by the Rangers in World War II, so constructed that it could be used to slide in between an opponent’s ribs or crush his skull with the massive handle.

  I had seen the knucks used by another boy. Wielded properly, they could open a jaw in five places. They were effective and impressive tools. I didn’t want a gun. I didn’t want to have to kill someone.

  Fish shrugged, took the rifle, and gave it to someone else.

  Mothers who are vaguely aware that their sons will some day have to go into the Army should have been there. They would have turned white at sight of the hungry eyes and ready hands groping toward those guns. The killer was at the surface now. No one spoke—they snarled. There is a feeling to the wood and metal of a weapon that is unlike any other. It can transform a man. And it can make boys into men in a second. The picturesque language of the gutter-kid was gone, only the obscenities were left.