The Thirty-Third Street Club
Awarded New Millennium Fiction Prize
First appeared in New Millennium Writings, Winter 1997
let me tell you somethin
Runnin as quick as these stupid high heels will carry me, and over my shoulder I see Amahl comin up behind me. Ain’t runnin, but walkin real fast so he don’t attract no attention. The street crowded from all the people walkin to Rockefeller Center to see the tree light up, all lookin at me like I some kind of thief or somethin.
Quick turn up Fifth Avenue to Forty-Eighth Street where I cross into the plaza. Jammed with people, but I turn the corner and throw myself into the doorway of some office buildin. The door locked so I just sit there, real quiet, breathin fast, out of sight. Some of the Yuppies stare at me.
glare back at them
Feet screamin, I take my heels off, leave them in the doorway and start windin through the crowd. Think I lost him, but no harm in workin a little deeper into hidin. After a few blocks an alley where no one is hangin, and I squat behind a dumpster to catch my breath.
Amahl used to be my boyfriend, but he been pimpin me for a couple years now. Last week I told him we was through. He went crazy and started chasin after me with this pipe. Savin my ass I lie to him, tell him I just wanna reduce my work load. Believes me for awhile, till he hear I was doin some of the regular johns on the side. Not givin him his cut.
This afternoon, just as I gettin down to business on old Mr. Happy, Amahl jump out from under the bed. Throwin me outta the way, he beat on the john for awhile and start swingin at me with that piece of pipe. Started runnin. Good thing he all strung-out and crack-blind or I’d be a bloody mess by now.
Peek out from behind the dumpster and look down the corner. Don’t see him nowhere, so I rest a few more minutes before sneakin towards Penn Station.
Plan to run to New Jersey like Margerie did. Course, the stupid bitch run out of money and come back to the city soon after. Amahl take her back and let her work for a few weeks or so till he figure she ain’t got it no more. Then he crack her head with that pipe and dump her in the alley near Park-Fast. Dead as a body gonna get.
footsteps
A hand on my shoulder and a piece of metal pipe come hissin at my face. Amahl yellin at me as I lie on the ground, tastin the blood runnin out my nose and into my mouth. He lean over me and crack me in the ribs. Gettin tough to breathe. Can’t scream.
Yo bitch, he yell. Don’t wanna work no more, huh? Thass cool. I fix it.
Grabbin my legs and spreadin them wide, he roll me over the way he like it. Tell myself to breathe. Know I should kick him or roll back, but my brain ain’t movin, legs can’t think. Dress all up over my head and now he standin on my thighs, pinnin skin to the ground, spreadin me apart even wider. A cool draft between my legs. Nostrils flarin, he pull the pipe back like a sledgehammer, aim it at my crotch and
he’s gone
Look up, seein this huge brother poundin Amahl on the head with the pipe. Amahl tryin to get up, screamin innocence, but the brother keep on poundin him. Bam Bam, Amahl bleedin. Falls to the ground like he dead, only I still hear him moanin.
Brother come over to me and roll me on my back. Big man, deep brown eyes, rolls of fat. Huge torn-up hands movin towards my neck.
Legs spread apart, and I can’t fight back, can’t even move. Know what’s comin.
No, I say. Please no. Not now. Later. Please.
Brother lift up my head and cradle it in his arms, wipin the blood off my face.
He say, Don’t worry. I ain’t gonna hurt you. You gonna be fine baby, just fine. You mind if I call you that, he say. Baby?
The little concrete bumps on the sidewalk before I pass out.
______________________________
Thirty-Third Street, just off Seventh Avenue. A sheltered spot between a bakery and a clothes store, and just inside, the stairs lead to the subway. Brother call this place the Cave, and I been here since I got beat up two weeks ago. Some warmth rises up from the subway below, no wind, tan painted concrete walls.
No sign here for the subway, so we’re pretty much left alone-just The Commuters passin by and they don’t care bout you one way or the other. Some-times pick up a little cash from the tourists as they come out of Macy’s, but not from The Commuters though. They don’t give you shit.
The man who save me named Butterball, president of what he call the Thirty-Third Street Club. To sleep here you gotta be a member, and considerin there’s only four of us, Butterball don’t take just anybody. A big man, built all heavy on top with short, barrel-lookin legs. Must weigh near on 300 pounds, but I can’t figure out why. Don’t seem to eat no more than the rest of us.
Butterball’s Basic Rules: do what you can to earn your keep, don’t shoot up or drink too much, don’t do your whorin in the Cave, and keep yourself clean. Butterball say as long as you clean you still got your dignity.
Two other people live in the Cave with us. Plato been around the longest, way back when there was another Butterball to keep everything cool. A skinny white boy with long straggly hair and wire-rimmed glasses like that Beatle guy used to wear. A head case with an education. Story goes, Plato was a Yale philosophy professor in the sixties. Said he got fired for smokin dope with some of his students and then couldn’t get a teachin job anywhere else. I guess it could happen.
Then there’s Mother Theresa. Plato call her that because for every dollar she get, she end up givin away fifty cent to any old fool who ask her for it. Looks about seventy years old, face all crooked and witch-nosed, walkin humped over to one side. Ain’t got a whole lotta teeth left either. Give the bitch a broom.
Ten years ago she and her man come to the city from Puerto Rico for a better life. Bad idea. One year later, he go out to buy beans and never come back. No money, no job and no beans, so out to the street she come. Maybe that’s why she so damn suspicious bout everythin. When I first meet her, she accuse me of bein Buterball’s whore. Told me I just like the one who took her husband away while he was out shoppin for beans.
Worst thing is I gotta stay with her while Butterball out lookin for food and money and such. He say I ain’t strong enough to leave the Cave yet, so I gotta sit here all damn day, listenin to the bitch whine and hack-up snots and lung cookies.
First thing every morning, I make sure I ain’t dead. What I do, is reach out from under the blanket and rub my hands on the concrete bumps of the sidewalk, eyes still shut. When I know I’m alive and breathin, look over and make sure Butterball still there. He never leave till he see I’m awake. Scared that Amahl might come and get me again.
Under the blanket changin my underwear. Last night I wash them in the bathroom of Penn Station just usin hand soap and warm water. Underwear still cold and damp, so I wrap my hands around them to make them warm. Wrap the old ones in a bag so I can wash them tomorrow. Been in the city three years, but never had to sleep on the streets before.
takes some gettin used to
Butterball wakin up now, reaches for the stash which he keep in a bag tied to his waist and strapped to his leg. Stash is all the club’s money and valuables. All he got of mine is a gold bracelet my gramma give me when she die. When he wanted to take it from me, I told him I’d rather starve than sell that bracelet. Says he ain’t gonna sell it, just hold it so no one would mug me for it. Pretty smart, which is why he the Butterball.
______________________________
One morning Butterball wake me up real early, long before the sun even up. Takin me for a walk to show me my new neighborhood.
You well enough to get around now, he say, and I don’t think Amahl comin back for awhile.
Steps of Madison Square Garden, sittin there watchin traffic, no words. Butterball next to me, lookin like he waitin for somethin.
So, he say, what you doin in the city?
I say, Is that your business?
It is if you wanna stay in the club, sorta like checkin your references. You been here for two weeks and I still don’t know your real name.
I truly don’t remember, I say.
Fine, he say, tell me what you want, but tell me somethin.
tell him
I’m from Hogback Mountain, South Carolina. Fifteen years old, drop out of school cause I get pregnant and can’t afford no abortion. Daddy kick me out of the house, but it didn’t bug me because I wanted to be with the baby’s father and live happy ever after, you know? So I move in with Old Man and have the baby, and it ain’t long till he start drinkin all day and beatin on me till I can’t stand it no more.
One day I come home from the store. Open the door, bed squeakin and yes yes yes, Old Man doin his thing on the woman from downstairs. The baby cryin and screamin in the other room, and Old Man just tell me to get out, like I had no business even bein there. I leave, try to talk to my mama, to tell her what goin on, but she say Daddy don’t want me around no more. Mama say she come check on the baby tomorrow.
Next day Old Man go out to buy his bottle in the morning, so I sneak back in his house and gather up everythin worth stealin. Take the bus to Columbia, sell the Old Man’s stuff and use the money to get to New York.
Soon I run out of money, but Amahl take me in and give me all the booze and dope I want. Next thing I know, I’m suckin down salesmen so we can pay the rent.
Butterball say, Wait. What about your baby? You just left him there?
Yup, I say. Didn’t know what else to do. Thought maybe without me, Daddy would take the baby in, give him a better life. I know Mama took him straight away from Old Man, brought him home. Strange, but sometimes I can feel him and I know he alright. Someday I see him again. If mama still alive, I’ll find him.
______________________________
Snowin out, sittin in the Cave talkin to this street shrink named Dave. He and Butterball know each other from way back. Can’t see how they’d get along. Dave’s a musician, ain’t got no real job. Velvet beard and beautiful long, blonde hair. Volunteers for some Help the Homeless crusade.
When Butterball introduce us, Dave hand me a card with his address and phone number on it, says to call him if there’s trouble or if I need help.
And Baby, he say, give my number to anyone who needs to reach you. I’ll pass messages along without tellin where you are or what you’re doin.
Later on I ask Butterball why he like Dave so much.
He say, Dave ain’t the normal street shrink. He ain’t never tried to force us to no shelter, never pushed religion or rehab. He knows we all got our reasons for being here, knows there’s more to everybody’s story than what we let on. Mostly, you can trust him, and Baby, there ain’t much out here you can trust.
______________________________
Sunny mornin. Butterball takin me to the Battery to teach me the right way to work. Tell him I survive for three years, but he say whorin don’t count. Says I need clean work, too much shit goin around for whorin.
The park. Sittin on a bench, watch him take off his shirt and shoes and toss the woolen hat. Six-inch scar on his forehead, calls it his street life merit badge.
In his hand a piece of cardboard say: I’m homeless and I don’t drink. He take it over to the sidewalk and sit there with the sign in front of him, singin to himself and rockin back and forth like Buddah or Stevie Wonder. Folks pass by and everyone look at him, read his little sign. But nobody give him nothin. After awhile he come back to where I’m sittin.
You see, he say, this ain’t workin. Trick is, you gotta be current.
Reaches into his bag. Pulls out an old red suit and the black rubber boots the sewer guys wear. Jacket got cotton balls glued to the buttons and all around the hem. Pulls out a white beard, hat, silver bell and a little black pail.
I say, Where you find all this shit?
He say, When you been on the street as long as I have you know where to find anythin. Now shut up and watch.
Back to his spot, ringin his bell and singin Christmas songs loud as he can. Singin and singin about bells and snow and Jesus, and pretty soon people start to notice. Tourists eatin him up cause he’s probably the only black Santa they ever seen. They all want pictures with him and bring their kids over to shake his hand. Meanwhile, they throwin all this damn money in the box.
After awhile he come back, take the suit off and stuff it in the bag. Countin the money, and there maybe thirty dollar there.
That’s pretty good, I say, but you oughta work near Macy’s or somethin where there’s more people.
He say, Now see, that’s why you ain’t the Butterball. Think about it. Them midtown Salvation people got good costumes. Folks walk by, and who you think they gonna give the money to? The white fella with the real costume, or the old black bum who made his outfit from stuff he find in the garbage. Better to work down here where there ain’t so much competition.
Girl, he say, you gotta get some business sense if you gonna survive on the street.
______________________________
Cold day. Feel the bumps on the sidewalk and reach over to wake Butterball, but he ain’t there. Never wake up before and not see him there. He don’t like to leave me alone.
Everyone else still sleepin. Realize the sun just comin up, so I bundle my stuff, walk out of the Cave to Seventh Avenue and look downtown. Silent city, and I remember that it’s Christmas and all the regulars are inside with their families. Remember home, eatin till we couldn’t walk, gifts under the tree spillin out into the middle of the room. Thinkin about my son, hopin he enjoyin his day, wherever he is. Wonder what he’s doin.
don’t think about it, hurts
Down Seventh Avenue to pick up some coffee, and gettin to Twenty-Eighth Street, make a left and walk over to Fifth Avenue. Big stone church there where I like to sit, and when the church comes into my sight, think I see Butterball standin on the steps. In a suit and tie.
He don’t see me, so I walk a little closer to make sure my eyes ain’t pullin any funny shit. Believe it’s Butterball alright. Still ain’t shaved, but his hair all neat and slicked back. Decide to just sit and watch him.
Half an hour he just standin there, playin with the knot in his tie and lookin around all suspicious. Expensive cars pullin up, and one by one he open the car doors and escort the ladies up the steps. Beamin from ear to ear, wavin his arms like a traffic cop, directin drivers where to park. Everyone make it a point to shake his hand and talk to him. When the bells ring, Butterball look around one last time, go inside and shut the door.
I guess he got some scam goin on, but I never seen a suit in his bag of tricks. Nice fuckin suit too. The kind The Commuters wear when they got a deal goin on.
A little pissed off because I thought maybe we could go out scroungin for cash to buy ourselves a little Christmas feast, hit up the churches as the people leave. Hell with him so I go back to the cave. In about an hour he come around the corner whistlin “Hark the Herald Angles Sing” and walkin with a bounce in his step. No suit on. Hair all mussed up again.
I say, So where your suit?
What suit? he say.
The suit that you wore to that rich white man’s church. You know, I probably did the lollipop with half the men in there.
He say, What you doin leavin the Cave without me?
I was lookin for you while you in there lookin for God.
I was busy.
Shit, you oughta be busy findin food instead of findin the baby Jesus.
Listen, he say, why I gotta explain myself to you? I been goin there for twelve years now, and I ain’t never had to explain it to nobody. Why you?
waits for a minute, thinkin it over
He say, My first Christmas on the street I decide to sleep on the church steps, to keep outta the wind. Early next morning, this old man pats me on the back, askin me if I wanna clean up and eat a little somethin. I’m hungry, cold and broke, so I goes along. I don’t care what I have to do.
He unlock the door and take me inside the church. We go upstairs to this little bathroom where he leave me alone to wash up. When I finish, the old man come back with coffee and breakfast and that nice blue suit. He say all I gotta do is open car doors for people and escort them up the steps.
So every year since, every Christmas and Easter for twelve years I been goin there. Folks expect to see me, and every year I get cleaned up and my blue suit is hangin on the rack waitin. And I ain’t never had to explain it to nobody.
I say, So now your belly’s full, you done your good deed and it’s too late for the rest of us. All the churches empty, and we gonna eat the same old shit today. I just wanted today to be special, you know, Christmas and all.
He say, Don’t you worry, we gonna eat alright. The preacher give me fifty dollars from the collection plate, five dollars more than last year. We eat alright every other year, and I never had to explain it to nobody.
Later, Butterball come back to the Cave with a box full of food. Hot turkey sandwiches and french fries and some little apple pies, all fresh from the Korean deli. Plato and Mother Theresa ask him where he get the money for this every year, and he says it none of their business, says they should thank God for it directly. Butterball truly believe God gave it to him.
______________________________
Times Square this mornin, ball hangin up on the wire waitin to drop. Theresa say it do more good if it come crashin to the ground, knocking out a whole bunch of Commuters and such.
Butterball makin plans for us to work the streets tonight. He pick up a hundred bucks last year, so this year we all gonna do it. Good night to work because people come into the city just to wander around, the city bulgin up like it gonna explode. Everybody get real happy with all the drinkin goin on, and when folks get happy they start givin out money.
Every now and then somebody give you a bottle too. Butterball say we can drink one bottle we get, but not till after we done workin. Supposed to bring the others back to the Cave. Butterball know a store that will buy them all back.
Walkin back from Times Square, and when Theresa and Plato walk off in the other direction, Butterball pull me into this phone booth. Standin there, lookin at me with this stupid grin on his fat little face.
What we doin? I ask.
Gonna give you a little treat, he say.
What kinda treat?
Call your mama, he say.
I can’t, I say. Too expensive.
He give me a quarter and say, I’m the Butterball, and I say it ain’t too expensive. Dial the number.
Pick up the receiver and put the quarter in the slot, thinkin real hard about the number I have in my head, hopin that it right. Forgot alot of stuff since I been in the city.
Stupid recordin tells me to please deposit three dollar and fifty-five cent for the first three minutes. Hangin it up when Butterball grab the receiver and ask me how much.
I say, It three fifty-five! Shit, we can eat for two days on three fifty-five.
True, he say, but I’ll feel better if you make the call, so here the money.
I put the money in. Long silence till another recordin tell me that the number is disconnected. Butterball hear it and tell me to try again. I try it, get the same message. Butterball look away from me and I take the money and try it again.
and I try it again after that
I call the information in South Carolina and give my mama’s name. Operator say that number’s unlisted.
Screamin into the phone, But operator, this is an emergency!
Sorry, she say.
Try the old number again, tears wellin up in my eyes and hands shakin so as I can’t push the right buttons. Butterball stop me and hang up the phone.
You bastard, I say. Why you make me do this? Why the hell didn’t you just leave it alone?
He say, I’m sorry, Baby. Truly, truly sorry.
It too late for that now. It too late for everything, I say.
start to cry
Butterball take me in his arms and hold me there. It feel good when he hold me. Butterball say, It ain’t too late for everything. You got me now, Baby. I belongs to you now.
______________________________
Afternoon. People start pourin out of Penn Station. A parade of tuxedos and gowns, jeans and sweatshirts, heavy coats-all rushin uptown, eyes big and expecting. Butterball send Plato and Mother Theresa to their spots where they supposed to stay till three in the mornin. He tell Theresa she better not give no money away.
When they gone, Butterball say, Come with me, Baby. Got somethin to show ya.
Bringin me way downtown, keep askin him where we goin but he don’t say nothin, not even shut-up
An old squatters buildin. Butterball lookin both ways before liftin me through a busted window, crawlin through this mess of glass and shit. Inside, he take out some matches and light a candle. Far corner of the room, a little broken table and two chairs ready. Old mattress under newspapers and rat turds. Walkin closer, champagne on the table. Nothin too fancy I reckon, but champagne all the same.
Butterball say, Hope you don’t mind. I thought it might be nice to celebrate before we get to workin.
Think maybe he tryin to get in my pants or somethin. We never touch each other, though there been sometimes I want to. Don’t imagine he want anythin that been where I been. I owes him though, so I figure to shut my mouth and take what he decide to give me.
Chair pulled out, I sit down. Bottle ain’t even got a cork in it, so he twist off the top and pour into paper cups from Dunkin Donuts. Lookin at me pretty weird though, so I ask him, What’s wrong?
Nothin, he say. Just thinkin about home is all.
Now I been thinkin about it too, ever since this mornin’s phone call. Afraid to tell anybody, don’t want them to think they ain’t appreciated.
Butterball say, You know, it always this time of year that you start thinkin about home, wonderin bout what coulda been and tryin to forget what is. I wonder bout my mama all the time. Shit, she may not even be alive.
I say, Well, why don’t you call her? You seem to have enough money for this bottle of wine, you seem to have enough money to throw away on my life. Seems like you oughta have enough money to call your own mama.
He say, Course I do.
I say, So what’s the problem? You scared? Scared of your own mama?
He say, What if I am? Why shouldn’t I be? She’ll just hang up on me and make all the hurt come back. She don’t like me much now, don’t even care. Besides, she got Dave’s number. She know how to get hold of me if she want me. Course, she can’t call me if she dead.
Decide to let it rest for now. I get him to call her though. Soon.
Drinkin champagne, he talkin away bout growin up and playin around his mama’s general store. Like a little kid when he gets goin, talkin and grinnin and laughin at each little memory, face all lit up.
Sometimes I miss it, he say and he look right through my eyes and into my head. Starin at each other, not sayin nothin, not doin nothin. Just lookin into each other’s eyes for what seem like minutes, hours. Finally he move his head just a little bit to the right, and I take it to mean that he want me.
Move towards him, shut my eyes and give him what he want.
______________________________
Sky gettin lighter, crowds thinnin. Leave my spot at Penn Station eighty dollars richer and walk past the Cave where Plato and Mother Theresa are sleepin like children who been up too late. Sprawled everywhere, feet stickin out from blankets, arms overhead. Butterball ain’t back yet so I walk up Thirty-Third Street to see if the New Year has changed anythin.
All the way to the East River. Helicopters takin off, carryin the rich old men back home, mistresses arm-in-arm. Sun comin up as I watch the waves ripple against the pier. Wonder to myself if yesterday’s thing with Butterball was a one-timer or if there’s something more comin. Decide not to think about it too much, just let life lead me on. For now I got a nice place to sleep and people who care about me. Seems like enough. Layin down on a bench, fall asleep to helicopters whirlin, people laughin, waves splashin Happy New Year.
Later on when I walk in the Cave, Mother Theresa jump up at me with those wild eyes of hers, lookin like she ready to blame me for all the world’s problems.
Theresa say, Where Butterball at?
I say, I don’t know. He was workin near Times Square last thing I know.
Well, then we got a problem cause it almost sundown and he ain’t back yet.
Maybe he fell asleep someplace, I say.
Baby, it ain’t like that. That bastard took off with all the money he made, I can feel it. He did have the best spot, know what I’m sayin.
Hush up, girl. He ain’t never done nothin like that has he?
No, she say, lookin at the ground like a child that been yelled at. I guess I just worried, she say. He oughta be back by now.
Triggers a memory: stories bout gangs of kids waitin for street people to pass out and then bustin them up for a couple of dollars. Wonderin if Amahl find him.
hear that pipe hissin like a snake
Well, I say, What you wanna do? Wanna start lookin for him?
No, guess not. If he don’t come home, we go lookin tomorrow. He probably just with some woman, she say.
He ain’t with no woman, I whisper when she start walkin down into the subway. Stomach start turnin, go out to look for him.
______________________________
Ten days now and still no sign of Butterball. Every day we split up and walk around, checkin with Butterball’s friends and lookin in all the usual spots.
Temperature droppin quick since sun went down. Walkin home cross Thirty-Third Street, wind whippin off the river almost blows me off my feet. Pretend that if I just let myself go, the wind will blow me right to Butterball, all bundled up in someone’s doorway, waitin for me, singin Auld Lang Syne.
Now Theresa insist he gone for good, but I don’t believe it yet. Can’t believe it yet. Don’t wanna believe that I been tricked, that he’d run off with the stash, rippin off three people’s lives. Theresa never believe her man would do it either, but he did. Got no beans.
Back in the Cave, Theresa and Plato huddled under a stained blanket we stole from the laundry of the Penta Hotel. Theresa sleepin, and Plato sittin there singin to himself. He done askin me if I found Butterball. Knows just by lookin at me.
Plato stop singin. Sorry ass look on his face.
I say, Just shut up. I ain’t quittin yet.
He say, Come under the blanket, Baby. Gotta warm Theresa up. She ain’t so good tonight.
What wrong with her?
Mostly she’s old and tired, but right now she’s delirious and runnin a fever and talkin about dyin.
I climb in on the other side of Theresa. Sure look ugly, drool drippin down her mouth, freezin to the blanket under her chin. Soon they both snorin.
Lookin out at the snow, cause for me, it too damn cold to sleep.
______________________________
Feelin the concrete bumps this mornin, my hand touch someone’s head. Thinkin it might be Butterball, eyes pop open, disappointed. A new person sleepin next to me I never seen before. Wrong kind to have around, needle tracks up and down his arms and neck. Butterball would wake this dude up and beat the hell out of him. Ain’t worried about him stealin nothin though. Nothin left to steal.
Walk over and wake up Plato. Sees the dude sleepin there, and points me outside. Mother Theresa sittin on the curb drinkin someone’s left over Coke she found lyin in the gutter.
Theresa point towards the Cave and say, What you think about that? Butterball only been gone three weeks and we got roaches already.
Plato say, Maybe it’s time I found us a new Butterball. The old one’s gone for sure. Maybe Amahl caught up with him and left him dead on the street somewhere.
I say, He ain’t dead. He comin back soon. I know it.
Theresa say, Look Baby, you better face it now girl. He been gone far too long. We looked everywhere. He ain’t comin back.
Theresa, I say, you don’t know that. You don’t know nothin.
______________________________
Dave came round tonight because Plato tell him I’m losin my mind over Butterball bein gone. Plato say Dave a good man to talk to, so I listen.
Standin outside the Cave and Dave say, I hear you’re feelin pretty bad, huh? Butterball really liked you.
I say, I know. I had men leave me before, but they always say goodbye. I just wish he said goodbye. I ain’t used to street life. Don’t know if I can make it without Butterball showin me how.
Let’s take a walk, he say.
Down Thirty-Third Street to Fifth Avenue and over to the church steps. For awhile just sittin. Watchin traffic and listenin to the conversations people have as they walk by.
Dave look at me kind of funny and say, Baby, I know where Butterball is.
What? I yell, jumpin up, screamin. Where the hell he at?
Shhh, now hold on, Dave say, you gotta keep quiet about this.
Where the hell he at? I yell again. Tell me fore I bust you up.
Just listen, he say. Early in the mornin on New Year’s Eve, I got a call tellin me that Butterball’s mother is dyin of cancer. Evidently she didn’t have long to live and wanted to clear things up with Butterball before she died. I gave Butterball the message and he left a couple hours before the ball dropped.
Dave still talkin, but I’m thinkin that Butterball knowd all this when I let him have me in that old buildin. Screw me and leave me was the plan, I reckon.
I shout, So why didn’t he say somethin to me?
Dave say, This was somethin he had to do himself. He said you’d understand, said it was you who told him there was nothin to be afraid of.
starin across the street, our reflection in the store windows
I say, So why tell me at all?
Dave say, They buried his mother yesterday. Good news is, she owned a small general store up in New Hampshire and now it all belongs to Butterball. He called me this morning, he wants to come and get you, to bring you up there and help him run it. You don’t have to go if you don’t want to. He said he’d understand.
Standin up, walkin around a bit, tryin to take it all in. Feels great that Butterball thinkin bout me, but I feel bad for the others.
Baby, says Dave, I know it’s a big decision, Think about it, OK? But don’t tell the others. I’ll do it when the time is right.
Dave, I say, Why is this happenin to me?
______________________________
Feel the bumps on the sidewalk and hop out of my blanket pretty quick, surprised how warm it is for a January mornin. Just excitement.
Theresa still sleepin, but Plato standin outside smokin some weed he found. Asks me what I’m doin, and I tell him I’m goin for a walk.
He say, I’m bringin a new Butterball around to meet you this afternoon. Just make sure you stop by.
I’ll try to remember, I say.
He say, Baby, I’m sorry. I know you liked Butterball, but we gotta get on with our lives. We have to accept that he’s gone.
I say, A person’s gotta do what he gotta do.
Crossin the street, walk inside Penn Station to the subway platform where Dave is waitin. Take the A-train to Canal Street where we get off and walk up West Broadway. At the Good Food Deli, Dave lead me up a stairway and into his apartment. Inside, all these instruments and microphones and stuff. Posters of Elvis.
Dave hand me a towel and say, Ready for a shower?
Hot water pours over me, black city tar rollin off my body and down the drain. Hear Dave playin this sad soundin song on the guitar and hummin to himself. Step out of the bathroom in my towel and ask where my clothes are.
Handin me this Macy’s bag. Dave say, Here, Butterball sent me some money to buy this stuff for you. He wants you to look nice when he sees you.
Open the bag. Sunshine. Bright yellow dress, new underwear, stockins and a pair of lemon yellow shoes. Go over and give Dave a hug. Good taste, I say. These are beautiful. Thank you.
After I get dressed Dave give me some of his girlfriend’s make-up to put on. Lookin in the mirror, scared of the woman I see starin back at me, the one who look like my Mama. Ain’t seen myself in awhile. Surprised. Still a woman after all.
Arm-in-arm we walk out to catch the subway.
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The bus terminal. Walk up one flight of stairs to the main level and into a little coffee shop. Dave say, Butterball is gonna stay out of sight because Plato likes to work the buses. Here’s your ticket, he’ll be waitin at the gate.
Dave come to me and wrap his arms around me. Looks uncomfortable.
He say, You keep in touch, OK? I wanna know how the two of you are doin.
scared
Inside my sunshine dress I’m burstin, explodin with guilt and sadness. Finally I say what’s on my mind.
I say, Dave, what about Theresa and Plato? Who gonna take care of them?
Dave laugh. Don’t worry about that, he say. They were here before you, and they’ll be here long after you’re gone. They love that life, it’s total freedom.
Pissed off at him. No, I say, that ain’t how it is.
No, say Dave, that ain’t how it is with you, and so you’re moving on. They’ve had their chances and decided to stay where they are. So let them live their lives and go live yours, OK? Don’t worry, I’ll keep an eye on them. That’s what I’m here for.
He reach over, wipe a tear from my cheek.
Take care, Baby. Smile, he say, and he walk off into the crowd, hands in pockets, not lookin back.
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time to go
Start to move, just like I practiced it. Walk quick, almost runnin, but still touchin heel and toe to the ground. Eyes don’t shift, starin at the floor and lookin up only to get a sense of direction.
The ticket booths. Two little girls come at me and ask me for money. Just look past them with that hard Commuter stare and keep goin. Seen it so many times I got real good at it, chin up, eyes locked straight ahead. Glance at the TV to see what gate the bus is on. Walk quickly to the escalators, tryin to blend in with all The Commuters who rush there with me. Lookin at my watch. Forgot I don’t have one.
Upstairs. Turn the corner that lead down the hall to the gates, and there sits Plato, cross-legged on the floor with his little cardboard sign, coffee cup for collectin change.
Rush to the other side and blend into a small crowd of people. Plato look over, feel his eyes on my legs. Wanna look at him, to let him know I’m sorry, but I know I can’t meet his eyes. If he know it’s me, he don’t say nothin and I keep goin.
Gate 14. The bus with the Boston sign on it, and as I’m about to get on, see Butterball smokin a cigarette waitin for me. Dressed all nice in a new black suit and a bright white shirt. Holdin his arms open as I run towards him, as quick as these stupid high heels will carry me.
Baby, he say, you lookin fine. Where you get all the fancy threads? Shit, and make-up too!
I say, Dave bought them with the money you sent.
I didn’t send him no money. I just called him to give you a message.
Butterball stops for a second. Cracks a little smile and says, Oh my, that boy better be careful. The city eat up the nice ones and spit them out.
On the bus. Butterball tellin me bout all the things he done since he been gone, talkin like a child that had too much sugar before bedtime. Says he been fixin up the house for me and buyin new things for the store.
He say, We gonna have a great time, I know it. And Baby, he say, grabbin my hands and lookin into my head, I’m glad you come along.
I smile. A few more hours of listenin to him ramble on, talks me right to sleep, cradlin me in his arms.
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Reach for the bumps on the sidewalk and feel the plastic armrest instead. Somewhere in Massachusetts, thinkin bout the others as the bus floats across the snowy hills and valleys, drivin me through postcards I’d never thought I’d see. Plato and Theresa. Never even said goodbye to them, know that right now they’re combin through every rotten street and subway station in the city, freezin their asses off lookin for me. Feel awful about this, so I ask Butterball what he think.
Dave will take care of them, he say. They survived before me, and they’ll survive after me. They’ll live forever, don’t you worry bout that.
Feel a little better, but I can’t help but wonder. It’ll be ten years from now and I’ll still wonder.
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New Hampshire, three weeks. Looks like business is just enough to keep us warm and fed. Whatever money Butterball’s mama left him is dwindlin, but the house and business are paid for and that’s enough. We’re still better off.
Butterball gave me grandma’s bracelet back, and I wear it all the time. Two weeks ago we sent Dave a letter and included the stash for Mother Theresa, Plato and the new Butterball. Stuffed an extra hundred dollars into it. Lord knows we could use it, but they’ll do more with it than we will.
Sent a few letters to South Carolina but never hear nothin back. Tryin to save enough money to go there, to find my mama and my little boy. Mama may not want much to do with me, and it’s fine if she don’t, but one day I hope I can take my boy back. Every night I dream of bringin him up here to live with us, but that’s just a dream. For now, I just need to know he’s alright. Need to know he’s growin up OK.
Local folks are pretty good people. They know us as Mr. and Mrs. Dexter Robinson. Can you believe that’s his real name? Dexter?
We’ve made some friends here too, but haven’t said anythin about our past. They all laugh when he calls me Baby or I call him Butterball. They think it’s cute, but we know it’s much more than that.