Books By Mike Feder
(The Talking Cure and New York Son)
NOMADS
I remember when I was a kid, there was a man who used to sit with his legs stretched out on the sidewalk-his back against the wall of the bank on Merrick Boulevard. He wore faded green work clothes, old army boots and a dusty Dodgers hat. He had a rough sand-colored beard and sharp blue eyes and always seemed to be squinting, even in the shade. Taking sips from a paperbag-wrapped can of beer, he lay there, staring at the people walking by.
Merrick Boulevard was Laurelton's main street-where you got your comic books, eyeglasses, power-mowers, new cars-and anything else you could possibly want in Queens in 1957. Our two banks were on Merrick. One of them, the Ridgewood Savings Bank, was suddenly famous-for a day or so-in the mid-fifties when it was almost "knocked over" by Willie Sutton, the great bank robber. I say 'almost', because the story has it that Mr. Sutton and his gang came into the bank, looked it over and walked right out again-so the bank stayed unrobbed. You'd think an event like that would be the news of the decade in such a small community, but the buzz didn't last long at all-it was absorbed almost immediately into Laurelton's endless stream of boy scout meetings, Mahjong parties and grocery shopping.
This man I remember, the bank lounger, had a perpetual grin on his face. In the late-summer morning he half-dozed and nodded pleasantly to passersby. Occasionally he said something, usually to a woman or a child, but I don't think he expected to get an answer.
The local precinct cops would pull their car up and sit idling near the curb, looking at him. After a few seconds he'd get up and relocate a few yards further along the wall away from the bank entrance. But that's as far as it went. After a while the law drove away and the man returned to his usual spot.
Inside the bank it was always cool, no matter how hot it was outside. At the long glass counter I take a brass ball-point pen from its holder and fill out the deposit slip. I'm very careful not to touch the stack of withdrawal slips. There's something disgusting, even diseased about them. After all, who withdraws money!? Only spendthrifts and bums, of course. There's a good reason why the withdrawal slips are outlined in red. The bank is telling you to Stop! Stop before you withdraw that first five dollars and start the horrible slide into... who knows what.
I hand Mr. Quinn, the teller, the three dollars and twenty-five cents saved from my weekly allowance and lawn-mowing jobs. "How's your mother?" he asks.
"She's okay."
Mr. Quinn stamps the amount of the deposit in my official-green passbook and hands it back to me with a professional nod.
The bank really is a serious place; solid, clean and quiet. I walk across the gray and white marble floor and sit on one of the large green leather chairs set against the wall. I open my pass-book to check the deposits, flipping back the pages to the first one I made exactly a year before: June seventeenth, nineteen fifty-six, the day after my eleventh birthday. Reviewing the trail of deposits over the weeks and months gives me a tremendous thrill. They're stamped by hand and wander down the page like footprints on a beach. Every inch or so, the interest is recorded in red ink.
I'm hypnotized by the numbers in the book, dreaming forward to the time when I'd have enough saved to buy an English Racer. My middle-weight red and silver Schwinn was alright enough. It never broke and it looked pretty good, but I wanted an English Racer, the Rolls Royce of bikes-either dark green or shiny black, a three-speed with handbrakes. When I got that bike, I probably could go anywhere-Hewlett, Jamaica Estates, Forest Hills even! No part of Queens would be beyond my reach. I could ride out to the country, maybe even ride out of the country. To Switzerland or Persia. I could take a plane to India then ride from New Delhi to Tibet. Just need some supplies, a canteen of water, beef jerky... But, back to the world-Laurelton is not Tibet and I have errands to run for my mother.
I get up, put my passbook in the back pocket of my dungarees, check my rabbit's foot, pen knife, special rock-they're all there. I nod to the guard. He salutes-an ex-military guy no doubt-all the men in Laurelton were in the war.
Crossing the marble floor to the door, I suddenly wonder how cool it would feel on my bare feet. What a crazy thought! No one would ever walk in the bank with bare feet.
The floor is very smooth; squares, circles, triangles-lines of bright brass that reflect the sunlight pouring in through the ceiling-high windows.
My father sent some postcards from Turkey once-pictures of mosques-golden sunlight shining off the domes. Also I read two books written by explorers who went to that part of the world-men who actually went on caravans through the mountains!
In a place like Istanbul it would be really hot right now, maybe a hundred degrees. Used to be called Constantinople, of course. That was a long time ago.. fifty, a hundred, five hundred years...
...I'm lying in the shade of a giant palm tree in the main courtyard of the Sultan's palace. Behind the gates of the Harem, I can hear the girls splashing in the fountain. God, I'd love to get a look at them! But that would be instant death of course.
From beyond the high walls of the palace I hear the noises of the city; caravans arriving from the East, shouts of horse traders leaving for the wild mountains of the north. In the harbor are huge sailing ships. Soon they will cast off for faraway and dangerous lands...
On the decks of the ships, everyone is running around getting ready for sea...
"You there! Belay that foot dragging! Hoist the mainsail, look sharp-Feder, captain wants to see you."
"Captain, you sent for me?"
"Feder, you're young and still wet behind the ears, but something tells me you're the right man for the job."
"What is it, sir?"
"We're attacking the pirates' den at dawn and I want you to lead the attack."
"Captain...I--"
"Now, son, no need for humility. If there's a better man with a cutlass in close quarters, I've never seen 'im. Now.. ahem-I want you to have this."
"What is it?"
A grocery list.
..."This fell out of your pocket, son," says the bank guard. Oh God! -caught daydreaming again...
Outside-there's the bum sitting against the wall. He smiles and lifts his paper bag-beer can to me. Is this guy a drunk? I don't know, we don't actually have drunks in Laurelton, or at least not that I ever saw. Anyway, he's a bum and I really shouldn't be looking at him. On the other hand, what's the harm? He doesn't look dangerous and I'm not in a big rush to do my chores.
What a funny look he's got on his face, like he knows something. What could it be? I know, I know. He might be a spy! It's possible, it could be... a Russian spy! Russian spies are smart, they can dress up like everybody else and you'd never know. The beer and Dodgers cap are just tricks to gain people's confidence. In reality he's a colonel in the Russian secret service. Now, if this is true, then my mission is to get him into a conversation, learn his plans and report back to...who? Who do you report spies on the street to?
He lifts his beer can to me again. What should I do now?
The police car cruising by across the avenue slows down and the fat cop driving yells over to me, "Hey kid, ain't you got someplace else to be?"
Yeah I do. I need to be at the butcher's to get lamb chops. Then the drug store to pick up my mother's prescription. Then I'm supposed to get a hair cut. Finally Key Food for the groceries.
From across the boulevard, I look back at the bum. He hasn't moved at all. Well, the guy's probably not a spy anyhow. What would a spy be doing in Laurelton?
In my basement, stacked on long boards propped up with bricks, are hundreds of magazines. Most of them are National Geographics my father left behind when he took off. I was four then. The magazines came in for six more years before my mother stopped the subscription. We had a complete run going back to nineteen forty-seven, when we first moved to Laurelton from Brooklyn.
Sometimes in the quiet, lonely afternoons, I sit on the linoleum with a stack of Geographics on my lap. They have bright yellow and white covers with heavy black lettering. The articles have terrific color pictures; people with shining red, tan, black or brown faces, wearing gold earrings or even nose rings...Wild-looking people.
In the background of these pictures there are giant jungle trees, or sometimes, huge mountains; strange-looking cows with humps behind their shoulders and monkeys with red eyes stare out at you from behind big green leaves. The men in these pictures usually have fierce frowns and the women shy smiles, although sometimes it's the other way around.
If you look at the issue of June 1947, this is what you see: The Nomads of Southern Sudan; six pages of pictures. Africa, God, it looks hot! My father went to Africa once. He could be there right now...
Crossing Merrick at 230th street. There aren't many cars. Everybody seems to have gone to sleep for the summer. You can hear that low, whooshy sound of tires on the street-and practically nothing else.
Outside Marder's Pharmacy on 229th Street. In the window they have huge clear-glass jars, two, maybe three feet high, oval-shaped and filled with bright colored water; red, blue, green. Next to them are old druggist's instruments, brass scales, funny-looking glass pill bottles, and a giant-sized mortar and pestle. When you open the door a little bell rings to let them know there is a customer.
I go past the make-up and cuticle scissors department, wave hello to Janine, the lady who works there.
In the back of the store, Mr. Marder is waiting for me in his buttoned clean white coat. He's smiling, has my mother's pills in his hand. My mother's pills are always ready, probably because she gets so many of them.
"Hello, Michael."
"Hello, Mr. Marder."
"I have your mother's prescription right here-tell her I'll put it on her account."
In Bullfinch's Mythology, which I read at the library, there's a story about a man who pushes a huge boulder up a hill-pushing until his heart is almost bursting. And just as he gets to the top, the boulder gets away from him and rolls all the way to the bottom of the hill. The man goes down to the bottom of the hill and tries to roll it all the way up again, and again it gets away from him and rolls all the way down. This goes on forever. Since I read about this man the picture of him pushing this huge rock uphill has stayed in my mind.
Mr. Marder is standing there smiling, waiting for me to go. I put the pill bottle in my pocket, say goodbye and walk away. Just before I'm about to go out of the shop I stop and look at the glass jars of colored water. The sun comes through them and makes strange, beautiful shapes on my arm.
Janine looks at me in her mirror where she is trying out false eyelashes. "You okay?
"Yeah, I'm alright..."
I shut the door behind me, and head off to Rosenberg the butcher on 228th Street. His store is eighteen stores away from Marder's, twenty-six large sidewalk squares from door to door, two and a half steps for each square; then crossing one street, that's a total of 76 steps if I keep the same pace exactly.
This is what it says in the National Geographic: "The nomads of southern Sudan are a proud and warlike people. They range over a three-hundred mile territory; trading horses, grazing their cattle, traveling over mountains, plains, and deserts, never remaining too long in one place..."
Something very interesting... the sheik, the head guy, always knows-like magic-exactly when it's time to move on. And of course, the tribe has to follow; every one of them down to the last baby goat. Tents are packed up, there is a lot of grumbling and snorting, babies crying; canvas and leather and metal. Then it's goodbye to the crows and the scorpions, and off into the blue mountain air...
...My mother is up at the top of the stairs, calling to me. "Michael, you shouldn't read so long in the dark... Michael?" I don't make a sound. After a while, she goes away.
The basement is one place my mother won't go if she can help it. It makes her nervous. She isn't too crazy about the attic either. I spend a lot of time in both places, thinking and reading, and imagining my father. He left a lot of cartons in the attic-mostly books and papers and also some other great stuff-like an ivory slide-rule and an old German camera that still works. Nobody ever touches these things but me.
My favorite things are the books he left behind, especially the ones written by Edgar Rice Burroughs. There's a series about a hero named John Carter who travels through space and time to become the greatest warrior on Mars. The first book in the series is called The Warlord of Mars. John Carter was a noble Virginian, an ex-captain of the Confederate army, with "the blood of generations of fighting men coursing through his veins." In the beginning of The Warlord of Mars, John Carter is trapped by bloodthirsty Indians in a cave high up on the cliffs of Southern Arizona. Facing certain death, he is suddenly transported through cold space to arrive, completely naked... on Mars!
It takes John Carter only about four months to become the most renowned fighting man on the entire planet. He uses his supernatural strength and unmatched bravery to rescue the most beautiful princess on Mars and defeat whole armies of gigantic savage six-armed green men. At the end he marries the princess and becomes Warlord of the whole Planet. And this is just the first book!
John Carter has lots more adventures, fighting his way through strange jungles, dangerous cities, and underground worlds. When he begins a mission, no matter how dangerous or seemingly impossible, he never complains; never worries-never stops till he has triumphed...
"The butcher doesn't have any lamb chops, Ma."
"What do mean he doesn't? I called him this morning!"
"Ma, I-"
"Oh, this is too much, Michael. I send you for one simple thing... Alright, just get steak."
I hang up the butcher's phone, sigh and shake my head. Rosenberg is looking at me. "My mother wants steak," I say. He stares at me for a second or so. "Okay sonny, you got it, a nice coupla pieces steak."
Rosenberg has blood all over him, his hands; his arms-right up past the elbows. He is short, stocky and bald and his face is always red. He's always grinning and has a cigar in his mouth. Either he's smoking it or chewing on it. Sometimes he turns and spits little pieces of tobacco out onto the floor and brownish juice drips out over his lower lip. His nose is short and stubby. His thumbs are too. He looks like a big boiled frankfurter. While he hacks and slices he makes stupid jokes.
I watch him take a big slab of steak out of the glass case and throw it on the marble counter. He reaches up, grabs a long thin knife, looks down at the steak, then up at me. He points the knife at me, "You know, kid, you should be nice to your mother, her health is not so good." Whsshtt. With one slice the steak is severed in half. It gives me the chills, makes me dizzy to look at it. I bet he'd like to slice me in half with that knife; evicerate me and put my organs in his case...
..."Ha," cries the head priest, looking down at his lifeless young victim, whose blood is flowing into the sand. This is the fate of all who dare to oppose the sacred Goddess." Quickly, the corpse of the unfortunate boy is dragged away by drooling lackeys. The priest gazes around at the assembled court, "If there are any here who would doubt the supremity of the Goddess, let the worm speak now!" No dares to make a sound.
Suddenly there is a collective gasp. All eyes turn to the high balustrade. There, framed in the gold and scarlet rays of the setting sun, stands a terrible God-like vision. It is He! He who was prophesied. Yes, it is Michael, the Sun Warrior.
As he Crosses his bronzed muscular arms across his wide chest, a grim smile playing on his lips, Michael strikes fear into the hearts of the evil ones. He is the living image of righteous vengeance.
The quaking priest licks his dry lips. His cowardly eyes roll crazily in their sockets. The assemblage is on their knees shielding their faces from Michael's terrible visage. Noble eyes flashing, the great avenger raises his right arm. The priest knows his reckoning has come. He screams...
"Hey, hey sonny, you awake?"
"Sorry, how much for the steak?"
"Two and a quarter," says Rosenberg, handing over a brown bag already starting to drip. "You need maybe a chicken? No? OK, tell your mother hello, sonny."
"Kay."
"And watch out the package don't get all over."
"Right."
On the street I walk slowly with my head down, studying the sidewalk.
The sidewalks on Merrick boulevard have thousands of mica chips in them-they look like diamonds sparkling in the sun. Some of the newer sidewalks don't have mica chips. Maybe they ran out.
Sometimes the sidewalk is pushed up by tree roots and you can see the actual dirt underneath, ants and worms; a whole hidden world down there. If the sidewalk gets too bad they might cut the tree down which seems very unfair when you think about it. The tree was there first.
When the weather is hot, like now, the tar in the sidewalk cracks and oozes out. One glob of that tar can stretch a few feet. What you do is take a big piece and see how far you can pull it before it comes apart.
Two-hundred-twenty-fifth street-Tom the Barber waves and smiles at me through the window. He's got scissors and comb in his hand. Tom is, without a doubt, the neatest, cleanest guy I know. His blond hair is straight and slicked back, his short-sleeved barber's jacket is always bright white and pressed. On his right arm he has a small tattoo of a heart with somebody's name on it and on his left wrist he wears a big watch with a gold metal band.
Stuck into the mirror in front of his barber's chair, the one right next to the window, is a big photograph of Tom smiling and standing half out of the turret of his Sherman tank. He was a sergeant in the war, a combat veteran. Around him is his tank crew, all squinting, because the desert in North Africa was so incredibly hot and sunny. My mother says that Tom gave me my first haircut when I was two years old, and, of course, he's given me every haircut since then.
While I'm waiting for him to finish with another kid, I sit in a chair and read comic books. Tales from the Crypt, a really horrible story about a fiend who crushes his victims in a gigantic wine press and drinks their bloods. "Ahhh," says the maniac, holding up a wineglass full of blood, "this is very refreshing. Ha ha ha ha!" He grins at his two remaining victims, tied up in the corner of the dungeon. "And who will be next?"
"Mikie."
"What?"
"Mikie, you're next." Tom is holding out a barber's sheet.
I put down the comic book and get up in Tom's chair. "How's your mother?" he always asks. This "How's your mother?" is starting to really get to me. What does my mother have over all these people that they are so worried about her all the time?
"How's your mother?" they all want to know. How come nobody asks me how my father is? It's as if he died or gave secrets to the Russians. What he actually did was leave me and my mother and my sister.
It's true when you think about it of course, it wasn't very nice; leaving little kids. But you have to consider why. He had a lot of important work to do in the world.
In the end, it doesn't matter why he left my house, one thing is for sure; he isn't coming back; not my father. He's a world-traveler and that's that.
There are times when I wish my father would come and take me away with him. But when I start to think that way, I have to stop, because I know my father doesn't really want any trouble, the kind kids or sick people give you. But if I was grown; then-then it would be me and my father going through the world together. Fantastic! Driving Land Rovers across the desert, climbing mountains...
Tom is clipping and combing, telling jokes, filling me in on all the local news and asking me a hundred boring questions about school, the Boy Scouts and my family. I look at the picture of him in his tank in the desert. It's really amazing, the same hand that is clipping my hair was once firing a fifty-caliber machinegun...
...Tuht-tuht-tuht-tuht. A cry of pain. Oawhh!!
Tom's been hit! I jump to the viewfinder and I see two Panzers and following them what looks like half the Afrika Corps headed straight at us. Blammm!!! A tremendous explosion; smoke, flames--the gunner is dead. There's only one thing to do now. With the speed of lightning I shove the gunner aside and take careful aim at the lead Panzer. Sweat pours down into my eyes. Tom looks over at me-panic and pain twisting his usually smiling face. "You only got one shell left, Lieutenant."
I nod grimly. I wait. The cross hairs in the viewfinder line up, and Booowammm!! The Panzer explodes like the Fourth of July. The other tanks hesitate, look like they may be set to turn tail; I don't have to think about what to do now. Pushing up the hatch cover, I look back and see the other tanks in my squadron coming up. My left hand closes on the grip of the fifty caliber, I raise my right arm, then yell into the mike on my headset. "Charge!!"
"What?" says Tom.
"Hmn?"
"What'd you just say, Mikie?"
"nothing."
Tom looks at me strangely for a second, then whisks the hair off my neck. I get down from his chair, and while I'm getting the money out of my pocket to pay him, he tells another kid to come over and sit down. Just before I turn to leave he pats the back of my head with his hand.
Outside the barber-shop, I feel in my back pocket for the shopping list for the supermarket. As I cross the street, Stan Green, the floor-waxing guy, waves at me from his truck.
Sometimes Stan comes down to the Boy Scout meetings on Wednesday nights to teach survival techniques that he learned in the war: How to find your way in a forest; how you can live by eating edible berries, roots, even rabbit turds if you can't find anything else. Rabbit turds; God, could I do that?
On the next block, just before I go into A&P to get the groceries, I see Mrs. Weiss coming out of the carpet store across the boulevard. She waves and I wave back.
Mrs. Weiss's husband died last year from a heart attack. My mother, who is somewhat of a friend of hers, used to send me over to her house to ask her if she needed anything to be done, like grocery shopping or cutting her grass.
Her house was always dark, because the blinds were closed, and there were heavy dark red curtains over the blinds. Everywhere there were pictures of Mr. Weiss. He was a captain in the war. I never said much to him, because he was always being a jerk, squeezing my shoulder too hard or punching me in the arm and making jokes about how he wondered when I'd start growing.
I didn't like going over to Mrs. Weiss' s house except for one thing-they had a whole room just for books-their library. They had more books there than any house I ever saw in Laurelton; a lot of the books were in foreign languages and had leather covers. Some were so old, they almost cracked when you opened them. Mrs. Weiss let me go in the library if I wanted but she made me nervous, because she'd stand at the door, crying a little, and say, "This was Sam's special room," or, "I should get rid of these books, but Sam loved them so much." Crying, and wiping her eyes with a handkerchief. It gave me the creeps and irritated me. What could I do about it?
They had a book, a giant one with gold letters on the cover, called The Great Library At Alexandria. This was about the library in Alexandria, Egypt, which was burned down by invading armies in ancient times. The building was supposed to be so gigantic that it had every book ever written up to that time. People came from all over the world to read them. The librarians were very important-people looked up to them like they were priests or generals-which is pretty hard to imagine if you think, for instance, of Miss Rosenkranz, our librarian in Laurelton. She's short and fat and her voice is sort of squeaky.
My mother and my aunts are always saying, "Poor Gertie Rosenkranz. Isn't it a shame about her?" What they mean is she never got married and had kids.
But I like Miss Rosenkranz. Whenever I go in the library, she always has a book saved for me-mythology or history-my favorites. Sometimes books about explorers. I wouldn't mind working in the library. Actually, I wouldn't mind living there...
...In the great library at Alexandria there is only silence and the smell of incense. We must walk slowly and quietly here, so we don't disturb the Gods of the library. Row after Row of parchments, scrolls, wax and stone tablets-the amassed knowledge of the known world is here.
As if under a spell, I am drawn to a special half-hidden ebony cabinet of scrolls; these are the ancient and powerful incantations of the tribes of Northern Samaria. The cabinet is set back close to the wall, and enclosed by a golden chain. I look in both directions-wondering if I dare to do it-knowing it could mean my death if I opened one of these scrolls. But, being so close now, I can almost touch them, I don't care about the risks. I must know these secrets. I must do it... I reach up... Suddenly, a terrible voice thunders, "Stop!!"
...In the supermarket I have pulled out the bottom can of family-size Green Giant string beans from a large pyramid of cans. This has started a can avalanche which knocks over a big display of Lipton powdered soup packets that was standing on one side of it, and, just so it it's a total mess, a display of canned peaches and pears on the other side. I drop to my knees, trying to clean up the mess. The manager of the A&P, Mr. Gianelli, is standing over me. "Kid, what the hell did you do here?!"
He bends down to pick up the cans. Behind him, a little way down the aisle, I see Frankie Gianelli, who is in my sixth grade class at P.S. 132. He's got his little league uniform on. Frankie's a big star in Little League-most home runs, best fielding percentage-all that crap. Sure, why not, his father is the coach of the team, practices with him every weekend. He doesn't really hit any better than me, and I can definitely run faster, but...
Mr. Gianelli is mad. "It took me a goddamn hour to get these displays right...Jeez."
"I'm really sorry."
"Chist. Alright, alright, what are you gettin' here anyway?"
"Green peas... sorry."
"Okay. Here. Take it to the register."
I walk up front, past Frankie, who is grinning at me. What a stupid idiot I am; what a moron. Now Frankie will tell all his friends what a retard I am. I wish I was dead or faraway someplace, away from this block, away from this neighborhood-away from the whole world.
I walk two blocks carrying my brown bag of groceries, stop at the corner of 225th Street to let a garbage truck pass. I don't feel like going home right away, so I walk over to the vacant lot on 223rd; Raggy trees and bushes, beat-up tires, planks with nails sticking out, old shoes, various other pieces of junk.
I love the vacant lot. It's right next to the bus stop and the gas station. People are walking by or waiting for the bus, driving into the station or whatever. You can climb up a tree or hide behind a bush and nobody can see you.
The best part about the lot is the tree house. Of course, it's not really a tree house, just a platform, planks somebody put up a long time ago-a rickety old ladder to get up-but still it's great-very high up, and private. I heard people say there were rats in the lot but I never saw any, although I have seen a couple of mice and one or two garter snakes.
I walk straight to the back of the lot, and holding the grocery bag with my left arm, I climb up to the tree house. Just as my eyes clear the platform I see somebody-Oh, no! It's the man at the bank-the bum! He's sitting on the platform with his back against the tree holding his beer can. I can't move. I don't know what to say. He smiles at me and takes a sip of beer.
We look at each other for a while, then he says, "Step into my office, kid." I stay on the ladder not moving a muscle, staring at him. My jaw seems to be paralyzed.
"C'mon, pull up a chair. You're gonna fall off if you keep standin' there."
I look down and around then back at him. I know I should climb right down and go away but I can't seem to do it. Meanwhile, he just sits there smiling at me. After a few more seconds I let out a breath and slowly climb up. I sit down at the very edge of the platform, as far away from him as I can, keeping the groceries in my lap. He holds out his beer can to me.
"Want some?" I shake my head.
"Trying to give it up? That's smart. I oughta-but what the hell... Anyway, booze costs too much... know what I mean?"
He takes a long sip, wipes his hand across his mouth, belches and scratches his beard. I notice that next to him he has a knapsack, an old army-surplus backpack with pockets in it for canteens and such. It looks bulgy like he has it packed with as much stuff as it can hold. What's he got in there? Stolen silverware? Watches? Grenades?
He's still smiling at me and I'm still not talking-only watching, ready to jump if he... if he what? Lunges at me? Tries to grab me? He doesn't really seem dangerous.
All around me I hear neighborhood noises; cars pulling into the gas station, traffic on the boulevard, kids yelling, people talking at the bus stop. The breeze is whooshing through the leaves.
It bugs me that someone is here in my spot. I wanted to get away from people for a while... but, on the other hand, this guy is different-not the kind of person I talk to everyday. He is pointing down at my lap.
"You're leakin', pal."
What!? I look down and there's blood all over my lap. Oh God! I panic for a second, then I realize it's the steak; Rosenberg's steak blood leaking out the bottom of the grocery bag. I pick up the bag-sure enough, the whole bottom is ready to come out. Shit.
"Whadya say?"
Shit. I must have said it out loud. I'm losing my marbles-going crazy like my mother.
The man smiles at me. I put the bag down onto the platform and just at that moment the bag collapses totally from steak juice rot. It falls forward, cans, bananas and steak blood all over the place. The eggs have cracked inside their carton, and yolk is oozing onto the rest of the mess. Goddamit! Everything I do is wrong. I can't stand it anymore. I pick up the can of green peas, covered with blood and egg, stand up and hurl it as far as I can across the lot. It hits a tree and falls to the ground.
"Out!"
I turn around. The bum has his thumb raised in the air. He's laughing, "You got some arm, kid. Caught that guy all the way from deep center." He sticks out his hand. "C'mon, shake."
I stare at his hand. Then I rub my hand against my dungarees to clean it and reach out to shake his hand. It's warm and hard and has oily dirt ground into it.
"Nice throw," he says. "What position you play?"
"Center-center field."
"See, I knew it."
I sit back down and stare at him; my mind is buzzing but I can't think of any one clear thing to say. He takes the last drink from his beer can and sets it down, unfastens one of the straps of his pack and gets another beer out which he opens with a can opener he takes out of his shirt pocket. He takes a really long drink out of the can. "Ahhh..." Sure you don't want a beer?"
I shake my head no. "What's in the pack," I say.
"Survival equipment." He laughs. "Sleeping bag, poncho, knife, snake-bite kit and a six-pack-the usual. You a veteran?... You look like a veteran." He laughs again.
Why is everything so funny to this guy? Actually though, that is pretty funny.. me a veteran; skinny, allergies, asthma. Boy, I wish I was a veteran, storming the beach at Normandy, blasting Nazis with my Tommy-gun.
He's probably a veteran! That's why he's got the army pack. It's probably his actual pack from the war. Maybe he was in combat. I point at the pack. "Is that yours?"
"I sure hope so."
"Did you get it in the war?"
"Yeah, I got it in the war alright."
He puts his hand down on the pack, looks at me-then off through the trees to the bus stop-then back down at the pack. He smacks the platform with his hand. "This is your spot, right soldier?"
"Well no-I mean I come here sometimes..."
"Right-you know, you picked a good observation post here...good cover... escape routes. Any enemy patrols come along you could pick 'em right off. Any of your men comin' back from recon you'd be the first to see em'."
"You were in the army?"
"Yup, Twenty-ninth division."
"Did you shoot any Germans?"
"A few." He scratches his beard, takes a sip of beer.
We sit for a while. You can hear the traffic, voices from the street... the wind.
He takes a long drink-tips the can all the way back, then holds it upside down-a couple of drops fall out. He smiles at me and shrugs. "So what's your assignment up here soldier? You a sniper? Maybe you're a lookout? Maybe both, huh?" He looks at my groceries laying half out of the broken bag. "Well," he says, "you got enough rations there for a coupla days."
The bus to Jamaica pulls in, then roars off again. A couple of birds higher up in the tree chirp to each other. He leans forward and reties the laces in his boots. Then he stretches and yawns. "I got to be movin', kid." He stands up, stretches some more, picks up the empty beer cans and puts them in his pack. He straightens and looks around slowly, a complete circle. He reaches down for the pack. Suddenly, I feel very lonely.
"Where you going?" I blurt out. "Are you going back to the bank?"
"Back to command? Nope, got to scout-locate a camp for tonight."
"You could stay here."
"Nope." He smiles. "This is your spot... besides, I gotta keep movin'."
He goes over to the edge of the platform, then stops, turns around and looks at me. He sets down the pack, unfastens the straps and fishes around inside. "Here," he says, handing me a khaki-colored metal disc. "This is a compass. Set it down flat and the blue part of the needle always points north. You know about compasses?"
I nod my head, yes. He straps up his pack and drops it over the side to the ground. "I'm going out on patrol. If you don't see me in a couple of days, check in with company command then come lookin' for me." He goes down the ladder and jumps to the ground. I lean over the side, watching him as he puts on his pack. He looks up... "Remember, soldier... you can stay in one spot just so long, then they get a fix on you. Don't lose that compass." He smiles, sticks up his thumb and walks out of the lot. I can see him for just a few seconds through the trees, then he's gone.
I look down at the compass in my hand. A real army compass! I can't show it to anybody, they might steal it; I don't want to anyway. I'm gonna scratch my name on the bottom; am I allowed to do that though? It was in the war. I hold it in my palm for a minute, then open the top and set it down on the platform. The needle wobbles and spins for a bit then settles-straight north.
I lie back against the tree trunk in the shade. It's cool and quiet. I wonder where the bum, I mean, the veteran, went? North? East? West? South? Well, he's gone anyway. People are always going-it's hard to keep anybody in one place.
After a while, I close my eyes. I can hear a big plane climbing-must have just taken off from Idlewild Airport. It climbs higher, higher... probably going for ten thousand feet... The noise of the engines starts to fade over to the east, headed out to the end of Long Island and over the ocean. From there it could go anywhere-anywhere at all.
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