No Lease on Life

by Lynne Tillman

  She didn’t know how far she could go with the cop, and now that Herbert from the twin building had arrived, though he was very deaf—they mouthed hello—Elizabeth felt uneasier talking to a cop. She was white, the cop was white, Herbert was black, and what would Herbert think, not that he’d hear, for all he knew she could be cursing the rookie, calling the pink-faced cop a pig. The cop was porky.

  Herbert’s face betrayed no trace of anything. It was placid. He was a calm guy, and he calmly ordered and sat down near the cop. His deafness kept him separate, maybe. Herbert said hello to the cop. It was cozy. A small place. Maybe they knew each other.

  —Herbert, we’ve got to talk about the situation, Elizabeth said.

  She mouthed and mimed the words and put her hand to her ear.

  —OK, he shouted.

  —We have no services anymore.

  —Me too.

  The cop didn’t pay attention. He stuffed his face. The food was salty. Mexicans know how to live in a hot climate. The cop was driven to be what he was, a master, a slave. He wanted to police the city, to do good. Ever since he was a kid, he wanted to be a cop, his father was a cop, his brothers, and he saw his job as trying to stop someone from making other people miserable when they find their car stolen or smashed and have to spend days with the insurance company, and their insurance goes up. Through no fault of their own. Most people didn’t have theft insurance on old cars. The porky cop wanted to make the world better. He was misguided. Who wasn’t.

  Herbert might not agree with this.

  Elizabeth ate her cheese enchilada quickly. She always ate fast. She wished she’d taken the cop’s badge number or last name. She could call him at the station in the middle of the night.

  —Officer, I’m the woman who talked to you in the Mexican restaurant the other day. You had a beef taco. I had a cheese enchilada. Remember? Anyway, I’m about to murder someone who’s making noise, and throwing garbage everywhere, the guy’s a menace, and he’s been driving me crazy, because I can’t sleep, and I can’t be responsible. Arrest me because I’m going to kill him. Through no fault of my own. I waive my rights. I can’t be human. Maybe that’s what I am, too human, you know?

  She probably wouldn’t get philosophical with him.

  There was nothing big between her and the cop, nothing much between her impulse to reach for his gun and his impulse to stop her, shoot her in the head or hand, between her need for authority and his need to be an authority, her need for help and his need to help, her desire for protection and his desire for heroic action, and vice versa. It could be breached by a whisper, Let me touch your gun. There were fine lines not only crisscrossing her face, double crossing her, and what, if anything, would make her cross the fine, pine line. What if anything—the lawyer’s anything—what if anything did you have on your mind the night you shot an arrow into young blah’s head?

  I’m God’s mail carrier, I had a letter to deliver from him. She was losing it, whatever it was. She wasn’t really looking, she really wasn’t looking for herself. She hoped no one was looking for her. Especially the law.

  She’d been close to criminals, she’d lived with one, Mitch, he was probably mildly retarded. He wore cowboy boots. He was from Oklahoma and came by his outfits the hard way. One day he disappeared and wrote her a note—she was in college—he could barely write. He was probably on Death Row now. She wasn’t, although everyone had to walk the walk eventually. She’d never been addicted or habituated except to Valium and amphetamine, on prescription. It was unlikely she’d go to jail.

  She said good-bye to the cop and Herbert. The cop glanced up. He didn’t seem to know she was there anymore. He shouldn’t be on the street. The clock was ticking for this guy. Maybe he was in love with Jeanine, buying her drugs, buying his own.

  In Memoriam. Even if it was in neon lights that you were wrong, that you fucked up, you’d be incapable of seeing it, you’d never admit it. You’re always right. Don’t bother to reply. Eternal disappointment.

  What’s fifteen miles long and has an asshole on every block?

  New York’s Saint Patrick’s Day Parade.

  It was awful in. It was more awful out. The sidewalk sellers were out, the sun was high in the sky, it was past noon, the sun was pounding the pavement like a bad cop, beating everyone down. The blankets were littered with condemned bricabrac, dented pots, empty bottles out of medicine cabinets, cracked teapots, the contents of someone’s life cobbled together and thrown on a blanket to be sold for quarters. For rent or food or drugs. It was pathetic.

  Sweat wet her thighs. She’d get a rash. Prickly heat. Everyone was sweating everywhere. The block queen who’d yelled at Roy, I’ll eat your ass anytime, honey, was arguing with another blanket merchant. The block queen grabbed a blouse and held it up flamboyantly.

  —No one wants this.

  He threw the blouse to the ground.

  —No one’s wearing this style anymore. It’s completely out. No one’s buying it.

  He slashed the air in front of him. His scorn for the old style was flagrant.

  Paulie was sweating, standing on the corner. He was with Hoover. Last year, the musician who’d given Paulie a home threw a birthday party for Hoover at Brownies, the musty-smelling bar. Posters of Hoover were wheatpasted on buildings around the neighborhood, everyone was invited. When Elizabeth arrived, Hoover was sitting on a barstool, eating some of his presents. Everyone brought him food. The handsome dog was panting, Paulie’s skin was copper-colored and leathery from years on the street. Now his toughened skin was streaked with sunburn. He liked being outside even though he had a place to live now.

  —It’s disgusting, Elizabeth said.

  —I’m thirsty all the time.

  —Maybe you’re rabid.

  —Very funny.

  —Want a cold drink?

  Paulie never had money. She’d never asked him to sit down with her. They’d talked, standing in front of his place, her place, on the corner.

  —You buying?

  —I’m asking, I’m buying.

  —How about the Polish bar?

  She should call the room. She didn’t. Paulie dropped off Hoover at home. Elizabeth liked interruptions. Interruptions weren’t interruptions, nothing was being interrupted, nothing was intended. She didn’t want to be in control.

  The place was as cool and dark as a fall night. The old man behind the bar said nothing. The beer was cold enough and cheap. Paulie was feeling expansive. They were killing time. It was as perfect as it gets.

  —When I went homeless, I was paying a lot of bills I couldn’t afford. I wasn’t eating properly because of the bills I was paying, and I had a feeling I could sort of be a free spirit, and hang out with everybody who was hanging out in the neighborhood and live outside. I thought I could get by.

  —Wish I thought that.

  —When you go homeless, you need two things: you need money and you need a bed. I would sleep in a park, before the curfew hit. I would sleep in hallways, I would be invited over to people’s houses to sleep, and I always had a good breakfast. The longer I stayed on the street the more hip I became to what was going on. I always had a sketchbook, a pen, and a pencil and I would doodle, carry my books around, and when they became too heavy I would discard them and start over. When Ron took me in I was just beginning to relax on the street. It took me seven years to get back in. Ron did something that not many people would do. He took me in, seeing that I wasn’t a bad guy, really, that I was just a little crazy at the time. He said, come on in, pay a little bit of rent, and paint. He put himself out on a limb. I always think about how if it wasn’t for Ron I might be still out on the street, or in a hospital, or dead. That’s the love relationship that I have with these guys, they treated me better than my parents treated me. They showed me more love than I got at home, that’s why I left home. I grew up in a quaint little neighborhood in Brooklyn. A lot of families have kids and the kids suffer because there’s nothing for them. I always thought I
was artistic, as far back as I can remember. I was always neat and I always wanted things to be beautiful. I always had an eye for things. I would move things around. I was in the living room, and newspapers were scattered around, I would pick up the newspapers and organize them and put them where they belonged.

  Elizabeth didn’t debate beauty, ugliness, love, or freedom. It was the same argument. There’s either too much or too little of any of them.

  —I try to make things better. When I first started painting I was involved with negativity, and at a certain point I realized that I wanted to be the kind of artist that would make things better rather than comment on the negative side of things, the ugly side of things. I’m always working on the beautification of the things around me. It’s not just me sitting in front of an easel painting a picture. It’s getting up in the morning and eating the right food…

  They ordered another round and some peanuts for Paulie.

  —If I make myself healthy and feel good, then I can also make things around me healthy that aren’t healthy. I have my breakfast, then I sit in front of my easel and I dream a lot. I just look at what I’ve done from the day before, or just from the past. I appreciate my work more than I ever did before. If I do something new that makes me happier, I leave my studio, and I socialize a lot after I finish a piece. I really try to be more with the people around me, to just enjoy their company.

  Elizabeth was easy, a two-beer drunk. Paulie might be dreaming now. She told him she’d go crazy if she went homeless.

  —It helped me straighten out, because I had a lot of time. I didn’t work, I had no bills, so I had all this time to think about how things were going for me. I wasn’t really happy when I first left home. I left all my old friends because I didn’t feel I could fit in. I was always suffering or in pain over one thing or another. When I was on the street I got rid of my shyness, it always got in my way. When I was a kid I couldn’t even talk to some people. I had to ask around for small jobs, I had to communicate more with people so I could just get by, and I found that people would give me jobs, or they would give me money free, and say, here’s five dollars, get a meal, or invite me in for a shower, a change of clothes. People would invite me in to sleep the night. I slowly became more social…

  Elizabeth gave him money. She never asked him to come for dinner. She never cooked. Even if she did cook, she wouldn’t have. She wasn’t Ron.

  —You weren’t scary and threatening like that hairy, smelly guy on the block last year. He was kind of like a cartoon homeless guy. You didn’t know what he was going to do.

  —I offered him a sandwich one time, and he said no. I was a cleaning man for the building next to me, and he’d been chased from another stoop, he began to squat on the property I was cleaning. I told him, Listen, if it was up to me, I’d let you stay here. But the tenants, there are children in the building, and there are ladies in the building who are frightened, so you can’t stay here. I tried to make that up to him by saying, Do you want a dollar or two? Do you want a sandwich? He’d always say, No, no, no. But I know he was hungry, he would scrounge around in the garbage can for something to eat. I knew he wanted to scare people away.

  —You weren’t frightening. You were compelling.

  Paulie’s eyebrows shot up. It was the other-people-are-other-people look.

  —A lot of the young people didn’t really appreciate my craziness or my living on the street. They would use me as a target for their aggression. They would throw bottles at me and cans, and a couple of times I got into scuffles with people, because I was trying to make things better. I would tell people, Why don’t you loosen up a bit? They would take that as an attack on their being, so they would try to chase me, or punch me. I don’t recommend leaving home and trying to live on the street at this time. There are too many people who don’t appreciate that.

  Elizabeth asked Paulie if he meant the crusties.

  —I don’t understand what they’re about. Not that they have to be about anything, but they must have an idea of life that is different from most people. They don’t eat that much. I know they drink all the time, and when they’re done drinking they leave like fifteen bottles on the street. They break them on purpose. They’re interesting to me. They’re like gypsies. They’re being persecuted. They’re constantly moving from block to block to find a place where they can squat and not be told to move.

  Elizabeth told him she hated the ground they squatted on.

  —I want to have faith in them, and I think they’re important to the community because they’re a minority which I think should be part of the community and not shunned, pushed aside. Maybe they’re sick. I was sick on the street at first. I had my first breakdown, call it a breakdown, in 1967, my friends brought me to a psychiatrist, and he was giving me medication, and that seemed to straighten me out a bit. I wasn’t as crazy. But when I moved to our block, in 1971,I began to get sick again because I wasn’t eating right, and it was part of my illness that I objected to medication, and that was one of the major keys to my health. It keeps me from hallucinating, getting paranoid.

  Paulie was a better person than she was. Elizabeth was unmedicated.

  —Do you remember when we first began to say hello? she asked.

  —No, he said.

  It was always like that.

  —I had a lot of things I was disturbed about. My kid brother died in Vietnam, and my brother and sister got married and they moved upstate. They didn’t like blacks, or third world communities. Most of my family was like that. When the poor people, the third world, started to move closer to them, they decided they didn’t want to bring their kids up with that, they thought it would be a bad influence. They gave up on me too. My older brother could have taken me in for a while, but there wasn’t room for me. My younger brother was my favorite, and when he died in Nam, around the same time, my mother was murdered. She was shot by my stepfather.

  His face showed nothing.

  —My brother died first. I told him you should try to think twice before you go in. He didn’t, he went and six months later he died. He got shot down at Hamburger Hill. They took a whole month to find him. I used to have dreams that he was captured and being tortured. You know, all those stories?

  Elizabeth held Paulie’s rough hand. Her hand was proofreader soft.

  —He was nineteen, he was gone. My mother got remarried to this guy who was a friend of the family. She was having a hard time with him too. He was a cop, and after he retired, they got a house down in Florida. I didn’t see the place, but I can imagine it was terrible. Then all of a sudden we get a phone call, Mom was dead, she was shot by our stepfather. They had a trial in Florida, I was sick, in and out of the hospital. I just couldn’t go down to the trial. My family was pissed at me. And revenge hit my family. They wanted to get this guy. My sister was afraid he was going to kill her, she was a little nutty. It wasn’t that way. My mother could get under your skin…

  Elizabeth ordered another round.

  —He murdered her, Paulie.

  —He killed her, and he got an acquittal.

  —On what grounds?

  —Florida is kind of a conservative state.

  —He didn’t do any time?

  Elizabeth might not do time for doing a moron. She had more justification. Her action wouldn’t be personal. It’d be a social attack.

  —My mother was the one who kept the family together, Paulie said.

  The bathroom floor was wet. The stall was filthy. No one was hanging from the ceiling, no one was slumped over, dead, on the toilet, with a needle in her arm. The walls were zines.

  DUCK LIPS. DUCK LIPS are a girl’s best friend.

  Duck lips duck lips uber alles.

  What can’t hurt you can’t be much fun. Maxine.

  Josie gives great blow jobs.

  My cunt is eden.

  God is legally blind.

  The STAIN…

  The stream of hot yellow piss falling from her was satisfying. She was full,
now she was emptying herself, it felt good even if it was nothing, and she was an endless river of piss. Elizabeth giggled. Some people believe drinking urine is healthy. People believe anything. She didn’t ask Paulie where he shit when he went homeless. She once saw a woman shitting in a phone booth on Wall Street. The cops were there in a second.

  Elizabeth called the room from a phone booth next to the bathroom. The room needed her, where was she? Elizabeth heard disappointment in her supervisor’s voice. Rose Hill. Rose was the longtime head of the room. Elizabeth couldn’t handle the room without Rose. Rose Hill had a life outside the correctional facility. On Fourteenth Street, there was an actual building with her name carved on it.

  Paulie went his way, Elizabeth went hers. He waved at her, she waved at him, and then he kept waving, but he didn’t turn around, he just waved, his hand flapping behind his back. He kept waving it as he walked farther away. He was already in his world, and she was in hers.

  A sandwich walks into a bar and sits down on a barstool. The bartender says, I’m sorry, we don’t serve lunch.

  A white woman from out of town is staying at a fancy hotel. She gets on the elevator. At the next floor Lionel Ritchie gets on with his dog. The singer commands, Down, down, lie down, to his dog. The woman drops to the floor.

  It was a short cab ride, just four avenues west, seven blocks north, walking distance. She was late and high. The driver understood English. He didn’t want to talk much. He knew his way. He was tuned to a radio talk show. The talk show host was railing against welfare queens. Taxi drivers turned their radios loud to enflame passengers who were easily driven mad in snarled traffic. There was only one furry deodorant object dangling from his rearview mirror. She tipped him. He didn’t say thank you. She slammed the door hard.

  She always tipped, except the time she hailed a cab after a late night at work.