The kid in my freshman hall whom 7 страница

“Peter Robishow.” The charge was misdemeanor

assault, but the crime itself—spitting on a police

officer—wasn’t quite heinous enough to impress

the judge, who ordered him released without a trial.

“Robishow” had no address. Marvin’s buddy

hooked us up with Reuben Brown, a homeless

rights advocate in the area. Uncle Marvin cannot

say “homeless rights advocate” without visible

scorn. “They don’t have jobs or responsibilities and

we feed ’em al the cheese they can eat,” Marvin

says. “What the hel more rights do they want?” We

decide that it’s best for me to cal Reuben.

I tel Reuben that Robichaux—whom he cal s

“Robes”—might be in line for an inheritance.

Reuben doesn’t look convinced by my story, but

agrees to meet us in a spot underneath the

Brooklyn Bridge on the condition that we help him

distribute a few dozen loaves of day-old bread to

the people who live there.

“I just want to remind you,” says Reuben, a light-

skinned black man with red hair, “that most of these

folks ain’t right in the head. Don’t get your hopes

too high, is al I’m saying.”

“Understood!” says Daphne. Reuben nods

slowly, taken aback by her enthusiasm to blast ful

throttle into the make-shift vil age in front of us, a

col ection of cardboard boxes, shopping carts, and

rancid blankets. Despite the loaves of bread, most

of their occupants hide when they see us coming.

The ones brave enough to look us in the eye do so

with suspicion.

“He lives in a box?” Daphne asks Reuben,

saying “box” as if it could have been “brownstone”

or “Dutch Colonial.”

“Robes? No, Robes lives down under.”

“Great,” Marvin says. “A goddamn Mole Man.”

“What’s a Mole Man?” I ask.

“It’s an urban myth,” says Reuben. “A lot of these

men and women, they’ve got no choice but

underground. An old subway tunnel is a hel of a lot

warmer than a refrigerator box. Somehow the story

got started that they got their own society, with rules

and laws and such. Their own civilization, if you wil.

But I’l tel you from experience, it ain’t so. Ain’t

nothing civilized about living in a subway tunnel.”

Stil, it’s hard not to imagine, descending into the

darkness of a tunnel, that we’re entering a lost

kingdom. We’re definitely being watched—more

than once I catch a glimpse of white eyes against

the gloomy pitch. I find Daphne’s hand, figuring she

could use the reassurance, but she seems calm

and happy. We could be going on a picnic. I chalk it

up to effective medication.

“Is it much farther?” asks Daphne.

“Just around the bend,” Reuben replies. He’s

carrying a giant aluminum flashlight, waving it at the

rats that cross our path. A sudden rumbling sound

shakes the wal s and straightens the hairs on the

back of my neck. It turns out to be a passing

subway train.

“Hey, Robes, you in there?” says Reuben,

aiming the flashlight’s beam through a separation in

the wal. “It’s me, Reuben.” There’s a reply, a cross

between a grunt and a wail, that encourages

Reuben to continue. “I got some friends with me.

Friends of yours, they say.”

My eyes accustom to the room’s low light, and I

can make out what looks like a human figure

crumpled against the wal. Daphne approaches him

slowly, one hand raised as if to touch him. “Dad,”

she says. “It’s me. Daphne.”

“Dad?!” Reuben exclaims. “You didn’t tel me

nothing about that.”

“Shush,” says Marvin, who’s sparking up a joint.

Reuben refuses his offer to share.

I rest a hand on Daphne’s shoulder. She brushes

it away, moving toward the figure on the floor.

“Dad,” she repeats. The figure twitches, struggling

to face her. It’s impossible to read the expression

on his face, if there is one: Reuben is careful not to

shine his light directly into the man’s eyes.

“Dad,” she says. “Is that you?”

The figure whispers something unintel igible.

Daphne continues to edge closer. I can sense

Reuben stirring uneasily behind me.

Daphne’s bringing her hand to the figure’s face.

“Be

careful,

Daph,”

I

warn,

without

any

comprehension whatsoever of what the risks might

be. Daphne removes something shiny from her

pocket and squeezes it, creating a vaguely familiar

noise, like a beer can being crushed. When

Reuben swings the flashlight toward them, I see that

Daphne’s holding the bottle of lighter fluid I use to

maintain my Zippo.

“What the fuck?!” says Reuben. Now Daphne’s

holding a book of matches, flinging one at the

crumpled mess on the floor. The pile erupts in

flames.

I grab at her from behind. Her arms flail wildly.

Uncle Marvin takes a more direct approach,

stamping out the fire. Daphne rewards him for his

heroism with a sharp kick to the testicles, or what

might have been testicles if Uncle Marvin stil had

them. Instead there’s a pop as she connects with

Marvin’s colostomy bag, which explodes like a

piñata.

The figure on the floor, stil smoldering, rises and

runs away. The flames spread quickly through the

room. “We gotta get out of here,” says Marvin,

struggling to his feet. He hobbles back the way

we’d entered. Reuben and I drag Daphne after him.

It’s too dark to see the smoke pouring through

the tunnels, but we’re choking on it. “Keep moving,”

yel s Marvin. I fol ow Reuben’s lead, helping to drag

Daphne toward a pinpoint of light in the distance.

The light gets brighter as we reach the entrance.

The scene outside is mayhem. Dozens of

people, faces blackened by soot, fol ow the smoke

out of the subway tunnel into the makeshift vil age.

Reuben is struggling with Daphne, assaulting her

with a flurry of profanities that continues long after

I’ve shoved a few twenties into his hand. Daphne

curls into a fetal bal on the ground. Marvin stands

nearby tending to his ruined groin.

I scan the chaos for some sign of Robes. But al I

can see is an army of charred zombies, coated in

soot, grime, piss, and blood, blinking their eyes

against the bright sun.

DAPHNE REMAINS NEARLY COMATOSE for the

entire drive home. After we drop Marvin off, I drag

her into the shower, do my best to scrub her clean,

and tuck her into bed.

“What about the farewel drugs?” are her only

words to me, a line from Sid and Nancy. Then she

fal s asleep, so deeply she snores.

I spend most of the night sitting in a chair next to

the bed, watching her. I doze off at some point

during the early hours of the morning. When I wake,

the bed is empty and the Buick is gone from the

driveway. There’s a note pinned to the refrigerator:

“Sorry.”

The cal from Kings Park arrives later that

afternoon. Miss Robichaux has decided to check

herself back in, says a bored administrator whose

greatest concern is that I pick the Buick up from the

parking lot.

The next morning, another spectacularly sunny

day, my father drops me off at the institution.

Daphne shuffles out into the visiting area, looking

very much like she did the first time I saw her there.

She speaks slowly. They’ve clearly upped her

dosage.

“So,” she asks. “How do you like me now?”

“Same as it ever was,” I say. “You look like the

woman I love.”

She smiles weakly. “You know why love stories

have happy endings?” I shake my head. “Because

they end too early,” she continues. “They always

end right at the kiss. You never have to see al the

bul shit that comes later. You know, life.”

“Lady, this love story is just beginning. Rest up,

because when you’re feeling better …” I pause,

because I don’t know exactly what to say next.

“What?” she asks. “We go back to the suburbs?

We get married? That’s us, right? Two and a half

kids and a white picket fence.”

“Fuck al that. We can move back into the

Chelsea. I’l even pick you up in a big yel ow taxi.”

It’s a reference to the end of Sid and Nancy that I

hope wil cheer her up.

“You’re not Sid,” she says, shuffling back to her

room.

Daphne’s words sting at first, mostly because

she’s right. Al of the bourgeois bul shit that we used

to make fun of—stupid jobs and suburban values—

has somehow become my life. I’m beginning to

understand her urge to set fire to the world.

But I’m not Sid Vicious. Despite the world being

a fuckedup place, wel past fixing, I don’t have any

desire to wreck the joint.

Maybe it’s just the sunshine that socks me in the

face when I walk out the door, but I’m just not ready

to go home and get ready for work. I could start

fresh. Find a job in a better restaurant. Quit food

service altogether.

I don’t even have to stay in New York. K. said

that traveling was lonely, but I’ve never even been to

California, where the sun’s supposed to shine like

this every day of the year.

I pop a cassette into the Buick’s stereo. It’s the

Ramones. I turn the volume up high and rol down

the windows. The highway air tastes of fumes, but it

stil feels goddamn good to breathe.

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

This book never would have existed without my

fol icularly chal enged agent Charlie Runkle, the

best in the business. Thanks also to his foxy wife

Marcy, for everything she does to keep him that

way. I also owe a huge debt of gratitude to my

editor, Cara Bedick, whose quiet persistence

saved you, dear reader, from many a cliché

(although maybe not this one).

To Tom K., for believing in me before anybody

else did. Thanks also, in no particular order, to Alex

Cox, Sid Vicious and Nancy Spungen (and Gary

Oldman and Chloe Webb), the very helpful staff at

Kings Park, Johnny’s Deli and their life-sustaining

egg sandwiches, Randy Runkle, the Ramones, and

Judy Blume, who taught me everything I think I know

about women.

Final y, I am grateful to my family: my father, for

observing early (and often) that I wasn’t cut out for

doing honest work; my sisters, whose laughter at

the dinner table stil keeps me going; and my

mother, to whom I owe, literal y and metaphorical y,

absolutely everything.

Дата добавления: 2015-11-14