Another Bullshit Night in Suck City Page 17

  Use technical knowledge or skills? yes.

  Do any writing, complete reports, or perform similar duties? no.

  Have supervisory responsibilities? no.

  B. Describe your basic duties below:

  Unloading ships from other countries in Portsmouth, N.H. Richie Moore was my boss. I lived in Portsmouth N.H. before it became a yuppie town—rents were human—I am a poet—I need a low rent place to live.

  C. Circle the number of hours a day spent:

  Walking

  8.

  Standing

  0.

  Sitting

  0.

  Bending

  constantly.

  Describe what was lifted, and how far it was carried:

  over 100 lbs.? over 100 miles?

  (left unanswered)

  PART III—REMARKS

  Use this section for any other information you may want to give about your work history, or to provide any other remarks you may want to make to support your disability claim.

  Cab driving gave me bursitis—I can’t sleep at all.

  A lady doctor at MGH told me in writing to stop the cab driving—construction killed my legs—I have lethal phlebitis—lethal—I lost the use of my right hand as a longshoreman—I have a classic deformity of the (unreadable)—I am also 50% blind—I have visual asquinty—no depth perception at—all—which limits me from 90% of work. My memory was totally destroyed in an assault on my life—

  My father will spend what’s left of the night upright on a bench, down near the Ritz. Across from his perch are a thousand windows, each window opens onto a room, the container and the contained. A thousand rooms he’s not inside.

  king of ireland

  At night the city empties of all but the most essential. Each building appears then, jewelry store or bank, separate one from the other, radiant. Stand before each anew. A rock in a river—waves, debris, current, it all passes over. In daylight the wind comes from all directions, a sheet of newspaper blows against your leg, turn your face to the wind. At three A.M. even the wind rests. The headlights of a car rise over the crest by the Steaming Kettle—its sign is the thing itself, an oversized bronze kettle that never empties of steam. The headlights brighten storefronts, news-boxes, Alice, tucked in her doorway, blanket over her head. Alice no longer sleeps in the ATM, no one does anymore, the cops chased them all to the blowers. We now know that Alice had a family once, a husband and a couple kids, and one night she was clipped by a car while broken down on I-93 waiting for a tow truck, and something jarred loose in her head. Organic damage. The police brought a photograph of Beady-Eyed Bill to Pine Street, taken by the bank cameras, asked if we knew him. A still from the goddamn movie of his life. More steam rises from sewer caps, the underlife forcing its presence upon us. And then the car recedes, its music fading down Park to Boylston, until its headlights fall on Brian. Ratcheted up, wired and sleepless, Brian wears three army blankets over his head like layered ponchos, a hole cut in the middle of each, making his slow way up, stopping at a barrel to poke for half a sandwich, half a beer, stopping at each payphone, checking the change slot, knowing that the phones release dimes secretly. If you sit on a bench long enough you can hear them releasing, hear the coin drop, all over the city—a tithe, the part of the field left unharvested.

  My father closes his eyes. A siren cuts through Charles Street and his head is briefly all siren. The siren grows smaller, his head grows smaller, until it is the size of a cricket, or the size of the sound a cricket makes—it must be directly under his bench, moving its violin legs. Brian stands before my father, unwrapping a butterscotch drop, untying the cellophane slowly—now my father’s head is all cellophane, the whole city’s cellophane. My father keeps his eyes shut. Brian passes the golden lozenge into his mouth. He crinkles the wrapper and flicks it into my father’s cheek. My father opens one eye.

  Whad’ya want?

  Want? To offer you a butterscotch drop is all.

  What?

  Butterscotch.

  No thanks.

  No?

  I’m fine.

  Fine? You call this fine, laddie?

  Brian rolls the hard candy in his mouth, slurring his words. He fishes another drop from his pocket and holds it in his upturned palm. My father wants to take it, but he knows it will be a trade, and there’s nothing he wants to give. He has no gift he wants to offer.

  Flynn, isn’t it?

  You know it’s Flynn, my father growls, and every night the same thing, and no, brother, I don’t have a spot, or a taste, or anything at all to share on this cold cold night.

  Ha. Have I asked you for anything, Mr. Flynn? Lord Flynn?

  Brian offers the butterscotch one last time, shrugs, unwraps it, puts it in his mouth.

  In Ireland we ruled, brother, do you remember? In Ireland we were kings. Now look at our kingdom, a kingdom of benches, left to filch candies from storefronts.

  A police car slows, passes.

  Have you ever sat in a field, brother, end of summer, the grasses pressing up on your backside, maybe a few dandelions and clover, all that’s left, and the clouds passing overhead so quickly you can see the shadow coming?

  I’m more of an ocean man myself, my father grumbles.

  Ah, but it happens on the ocean as well, don’t it, if you look into it long enough? The wheel can’t help but turn. Some end up on top, some on the bottom. But the wheel keeps turning, turning even now, nothing can stop it. It is in the nature of the wheel to turn, like it is in our nature to drink. So how about it, laddie, brother, piece of my own heart? Are you holding tonight? I can’t fathom what would bring you to this particular bench at this particular time of night if you weren’t holding a wee taste.

  My father has closed his eyes again. He knows Brian, knows that if he brings out his vodka Brian will drain it, he will stand before him and praise the goodness of heaven and tilt his whole body back until the bottle empties into him. And they may be brothers, and they may have been kings, but only Brian will be drunk. And my father will still be on this bench. A sheet of newspaper blows against the bench, lingers, tumbles on, catches against Brian’s feet. He picks it up with a flourish.

  Look, headline news—“Two Micks Seen Outside Park Street Station.” No one has ever seen them apart. Rumor has it they are the same person. Ha. It’s all here…

  Brian stands on the bench, waving his hands at the daffodils that fill the beds behind them,

  …and not only is every article about us, but the newspaper itself, the ink, the pulp, it’s all us.

  And these flowers…

  Brian swandives into the daffodils, lying among the broken stems, arms outstretched, laughing,

  …these flowers, brother, these clown flowers—

  Enough, the cops will come, my father hisses, taking out his bottle.

  five

  santa lear

  Each night, like another night in a long-running play, I wander the empty streets, check on every sprawled man until I find him, tension built into each blanket. Each man has a role—one will be the lunatic king, one will be the fool. One will offer dire warnings, one will plot against us, one will try to help. I am forced to play the son. Most nights our paths cross before dawn, but sometimes months will pass without contact. The stage is done up like the outdoor space of an anonymous American city—broken neon, billboards of happy products, vast, empty. The light is dim, but we can make out figures draped in blankets, on benches, in doorways, beneath bushes. Each night I wander among them, and some I speak with, and for some I leave food. Another blanket. A coat. Any one of them may or may not be my father. Though the audience expects the encounter, they’ve paid for the encounter, I may not find him. Weeks may pass without a climax. Maybe housed, maybe dead, maybe he has left the city, though that is unlikely. The action flags, the audience lulled by the dull repetition, the same faces, then a new face (tonight the role of Suzy will be played by Lili Taylor), which soon becomes once again the same face
. The night my father does rise from beneath a blanket, what am I supposed to say? Hard by here is a hovel? or Gracious, my lord, you cannot see your way?

  Out since early February, now it’s nearly December, count the months off on your fingers. One freezing night in the past year my father’s left foot got frostbitten. In a letter to me he writes, I am losing my left toes (due to not taking off my shoes at night). Piece by piece he’s leaving this world (Accursed fornicator! How are your stumps?), with no bomb coming to take him whole. I put this letter in the cardboard box with all the rest. Some months he sells blood to pay the rent on his storage unit (miss one payment at the Happy Hound, your stuff’s in the dumpster). When he tells me this I give him some money, whatever I have on me. Bench boy, box man, rat food, I want him to be a projection from the machine hidden inside my head, I want him to fall from the fifth-story window, I want to unplug the machine. Some nights I imagine running him over with the Van—your father’s dead, the phone will say, we’re holding him in the morgue. I’ve been there, seen the tiny freezer doors stacked to the ceiling, the gurneys draped with sheets, the toes tagged, just like the movies. Where will they hang the tag on my father? Months later I find him, limping. The doctor wanted to amputate, he says, but I walked.

  Still outside, winter everywhere, snow falls (Grain upon grain, one by one, and one day, suddenly, there’s a heap, a little heap, the impossible heap), his toes now blackening in his sock.

  For the days leading up to Christmas he works for the Salvation Army as a fake Santa—the belted suit, the faux trim, the ringlet beard. Stationed on a sidewalk before a black pot, he rings a bell. I first learn of this when he tells me, one morning at the shelter as I finish the graveyard shift on the Van. I run into him on his way to get into his suit. He even shows me a photograph, and I’ll be damned, there he is, one of the downtown Santas. A bell-ringer, my father. Later, walking, I realize I’d never noticed just how many Santas there are, I pass dozens of them, one on every corner, same black pot, same worn suit, but from now on I’ll never know if one is my father. The Santa Brigade of the Salvation Army, each face disguised—rosy-cheeked, rosy-eyed, rosy-nosed—each bleating out a bleary, Ho-ho. If I look too closely into any one of their faces an eye will wink, or blink, but this doesn’t mean it’s him. Maybe they all wink, crinkle their eyes, Ho-ho. One stands before a Dunkin’ Donuts, a pink-glazed monstrosity the size of a truck tire filling the window behind his head.

  setting:

  A sidewalk outside an urban donut shop. Rush hour. Stage crowded, action frozen. Scratchy Christmas carols play. A slide projection on a scrim of glistening, sick-colored, overlit donuts, ten times normal size. As lights come up slowly the stage clears, leaving five SANTAS and three DAUGHTERS. DAUGHTERS, dressed exactly alike in white aprons and wearing same black wig, bobbed with bangs, stand in a row before the scrim. SANTA FIVE surreptitiously chases a dawdling BUSINESSMAN, coming up behind him, head low, gesturing wildly, giving him the finger with both hands. BUSINESSMAN looks over shoulder uneasily, but SANTA FIVE straightens and looks down at feet, at walls, seemingly innocent, until BUSINESSMAN turns away. BUSINESSMAN exits. SANTA ONE squats on floor, holds a bullhorn before a close ’n play, playing Christmas carols, oblivious. SANTAS TWO and THREE loll together, before a black pot suspended on a wooden tripod, halfheartedly ringing bells, smoking, murmuring to each other, scratching themselves, bleating out an occasional ho-ho. SANTA FOUR is passed out on a small mountain of shoes. SANTA FIVE now pokes through a trashbarrel, paranoid, glancing around. Heavy snow falls, tapers off.

  Daughter One: Seven days a week this—

  Santa One: (through bullhorn) Snow on! I will endure, on such a night as this!

  Daughter One: (annoyed)—is the process.

  Santa Two: (gestures to SANTA ONE) His wits begin t’ unsettle.

  Santa Three: Canst thou blame him?

  Daughter One: Monday. Day One—plain, the classic donut. God’s gift—flour, eggs, milk, butter—good, clean, all-natural ingredients.

  Santa One: (bullhorn) The ha-ha, the ho-ho.

  Daughter Two: (ignores him) Those that do not sell on Day One move into Day Two, where we glaze them. Honey-dipped, we call it, though we use no honey. The same donut as Day One, now transformed. Many people wait for Day Two, the shiny donut.

  Santa Three: (grabs bullhorn, to DAUGHTERS) Is there a point to this?

  SANTA FOUR rises. Appreciative applause heard over the sound system, perhaps an electric applause sign overhead. SANTA FOUR steps out of character for just an instant, acknowledges the applause, tiptoes behind the counter and swipes a donut, then continues stumbling over to the jail cell, which he lets himself into using the oversized skeleton key hanging beside the bars. At the door he turns to audience.

  Santa Four: (holds up donut) Do you realize that the latest theory of the universe is that it’s shaped like a donut? Fucking amazing. (He enters cell, curls up and snores loudly over the rest of the donut-process recitation.)

  Daughter Three: Day Three we dust the remaining honey-dipped with confectioner’s sugar—it is now a sugar donut. The faux honey has begun to skin over, like a caramel apple—it has some bite now, the sugar floating upon the surface like pollen dusts a pond in spring.

  SANTA FOUR takes his pillow and covers his head, attempting to block out the sound. Muffled curses. SANTA FIVE stands before DAUGHTERS, motions for a cup of coffee. DAUGHTERS ignore him. When they look away SANTA FIVE gives them the double finger.

  Daughter One: Day Four—

  Santa Three: (bullhorn) For the love of Christ can’t you move this along?

  The SANTAS adjust the pillows that make up their bellies.

  The projection on the scrim flickers, becoming the wall of a morgue, small stainless freezer doors stacked five high, maybe eight across, lit in the same way as the donuts. The DAUGHTERS exchange their flour-coated aprons for black industrial rubber aprons. Each rolls a gurney beside SANTAS ONE, TWO and THREE, who climb aboard and are covered with a white sheet. All barefoot, we now notice, with a tag hanging from their big toes, now revealed in their prone positions. SANTA FOUR stays in cell, SANTA FIVE huddles along left wall. The DAUGHTERS wheel the bodies into position, lined in a row, feet forward. One DAUGHTER stands behind each head. A blinding overhead light lowers over each body. One by one DAUGHTERS read the vital stats off each toe tag, and as they read each SANTA sits up briefly, winks, tells story, lays back dead.

  Daughter One: Fell on a broken bottle and bled to death—his last words were about robbing a bank.

  Santa Two: The whole enterprise—the hoo-hoo, the ha-ha, the goo-goo, the ga-ga—my idea, my brainchild. Those other morons did what I told them. Dippy-do Doyle? Couldn’t find his way out of a paper bag. I made millions, kid, millions. Lived well, drank in Joe Kennedy’s hangout in Palm Beach. I walk in, bartender throws me a Johnnie Walker Black, asks, What’re you writing these days? Mostly checks, I tell him, ha ha.

  SANTA FOUR exits cell, again to applause, picks up the bullhorn, coughs into it, rubs sleep from his eyes. He sits on the floor, begins to play close ’n play Christmas carols quietly, experimenting, scratching a song. It begins to snow lightly.

  Daughter Two: Froze to death, couldn’t pry the bell from his hand.

  Santa One: I was a goner from the first moment, the first check. Doyle set me up. He knew about you kids, knew where you lived, threatened to kill both you and Taddy-tu-tu if I didn’t keep going along with it. Said he’d kidnap you, for chrissakes, what was I supposed to do? I only got a few thousand out of the whole gig, nothing, really.

  Santa Three: (sits up suddenly, speaks to SANTA ONE) Now, wait a minute, dryballs. There I was, in front of the Great God Giggles Garrity, the greatest judge in the U.S. judicial system…. (to DAUGHTERS) Write it down, dryballs, it’s classic.

  DAUGHTERS look at each other, confused, mouthing the word “dryballs?”

  SANTA FOUR stands up and attempts to hold bullhorn before SANTA THREE.

  Santa Thr
ee: He never smiled until the day he sentenced me. (bullhorn to DAUGHTERS) Turn the page, dryballs, you need a new page.

  DAUGHTERS slowly begin transcribing on clipboards.

  Santa Three: Six U.S. marshals brought me in, in shackles, penis included. (DAUGHTERS, confused, mouth the word “penis”) A two-million-dollar case. I was arrested going into the Breakers with a beautiful broad. (through bullhorn to DAUGHTERS) Hey, numbnuts, you don’t write fast enough, you’re all losing your brains. I was in love with the broad, said I’d be right back, after I spoke with the police. Dumb bunny’s probably still waiting for me, ha ha.

  Santa Four: Any donuts left?

  Lights flicker.

  Daughter Two: We drove at night, the city locked, subdued, steam breathing from the sewers, steam from the sides of buildings. The steam drew him to it, a cipher until he spoke, a shape, the shape of a man asleep. I am here to check his breathing, to watch the blanket rise and fall.

  Santa Four: (through bullhorn) When the mind’s free the body’s delicate.

  Daughter Three: The wind means something here, the snow means something. Footprints in the snow mean something. No footprints lead to this man. The snow began falling at midnight. He lay down before then. This means something.

  Santa Three: Buried most of it below a tree—I’m not telling you where, you bastard—but know it’s waiting, waiting for the dust to settle.

  Daughter One: The engine running, hot air blowing on my legs. Art cold? Thou art the thing itself, methinks. Inhale, exhale, the body’s steam, the engine inside, the soul manifest, the dream’s white cloud. I am cold myself.

  Daughter Two: For a few months after I got back from Mexico I seriously considered buying him a one-way ticket to Mexico City. Get him drunk one night and pour him into a bus while he’s passed out.