February 8, 2005

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                                                  Another Chicago Night

  
  

   

  
  

  It was morning, 2 am, when Buppy and I went down the stairs and out the door.  I'd buy food, but really I wanted to see Joe.  He'd had a disappointment; the apointment to have his gang tatoos removed had been canceled as had the program that did it, for lack of funding, another Republican victory against the little guy.  

  
  

  The Baroness ran up to him her entire being wiggling with joy.  Outside the store, smoking as there were no customers, he saw her bounding upto him and knelt on the sidewalk, holding his hands so that she could straddle them and be picked up without what we know now was pain from the cancer that killed her, not too long after.  

  
  

  She'd always been a frightened little thing, brutalized, 3 months in a cage when she was an infant, 2.3 pounds of her kept with giant puppies, their feet as big as her head.  But, knowing goodness of spirit, she gave herself over to Joe, who tried hard with his redneck hillbilly camouflage, his untidy jeans, split shoes, grubby tee, rips in his plaid flannel shirt, to deflect those who might try to see him as a man of depth and worth instead of the scruffy fool. 

  
  

  Buppy knew.  She settled softly into his arms.  He'd crossed them over his chest where he held her safe and close, his own damaged heart just right there a little skin and bone and muscle away, not much, from hers with the broken valve.  Once I found her, Buppy often knew contentment.  But standing there tonight, I had to look away for when Joe held her, I could see raw pain move out of him, away into the air where it hovered, replaced by bliss or joy, waiting to dive again when he put her down or talked of how she was already old and would die too soon for either of us to bear. 

  
  

  Saul rolled up, his little blind dog tethered to the handlebars of his bike, his little shock collar fixed firmly around his neck.  The Baroness, now afraid of all dogs, tried to climb onto Joe's head.  I took her.

  
  

  Joe went inside.  He sold condoms and batteries and 5 banannas, an odd combination of wants, but who can parse anothers needs and desires.

  
  

  Dear earnest Saul.  He  looked at me and said, "Well, my luck's so bad I can't even get laid."

  
  

  He'd bought an apartment 10 years before with two bedrooms, enough room for the wife that he's never found, despite going three nights and weekends to singles events for years.  The last time we spoke of this, he threw himself on my shoulder and wept, even as I gently reminded him that perhaps removing the shock box from his little dog's collar might give a different impression, as would not cinching his pants above his waistline.   After all, he's got an interesting and attractive face, a good sense of humor, he's gainfully employed and heterosexual.  I'd argued in vain for just a little readjustment. 

  
  

  I raised my eyebrows. 

  
  

  "I was a little desperate, Pearl, " he said, "so I hired the neighborhood hooker...   I paid her, she took me to her room, said she'd be back with a corkscrew for the wine.  I fell asleep and woke up alone.  She never did come back."

  
  

  I didn't know the neighborhood had it's very own hooker.  I search with increasing desperation of my own for something to say and, unsuccessful, I hold the Baroness high with one hand and bend to scratch his pooch with the other. 

  
  

  Joe comes out and lights up, asking about his dog's health, for here in the 'hood we are known as "Buppy's mother,"  "Flash's father," and so inquiries must be made about the children. 

  
  

  Impatient with me as I am without words of comfort or release with which to accept his latest intersection with the world of the heart, Saul puts a foot on a pedal and pushes off, the little red lights attached to his dog's little shoes twinking in the dark, a matching set on his orange leather sneakers.

  
  

  "I sure hope they get home safe, " Joe offers as he grinds out his cigarette on the ledge to go in and sell four fruit flavored blunts, three condoms and two gallons of 2% milk, meeting the needs of neighborhood commerce.

  
  

  I wait outside. 

  
  

  One of the martial artists from the studio downstairs, the intellectual one who can only meet another outside the realm of the intellect, deeper down where the sprit lives, if he's boosted dopamine with booze or drugs, bounds up on the balls of his feet and strikes a pose, his leg and foot aimed to strike at Buppy.  

  
  

  Drawing on his deep knowledge of Asia, knowing that somewhere out there they eat dogs, he says, "How's cup of soup dog today?"

  
  

  He's too fast and well trained for me to be able to strangle him on the spot.  He knows I dislike this and that threatening the Baroness is threatening me.  He's baiting me. 

  
  

  Fixing him with my green-eyed killer stare I say, not softly, "You know, Jim, you certainly aren't making a good impression on those college girls over there, a big man like you threatening a 9 pound dog...  I don't think it gains you manhood points at all."

  
  

  Shocked, truly shocked, for it showed in his face, he bent down, this time with softness in his body, asking Buppy to come to him, the first time he'd ever done that.  Her tail between her legs as though she had done something wrong instead of him, her belly on the ground, she crept up to him, her tail a little broom against the concrete.  He reached out and scratched softly behind her ears. 

  
  

  He stood, as always, on the balls of his feet, wearing soft shoes, the better to kick in, and reached for me, pulling me to him suddenly in a crazy, tilting embrace. 

  
  

  "Pearl, you know I've been thinking for days and days how I've always loved you, since the day you moved here nine years ago, and how I don't see you often and would you come to the bar and talk to me sometimes, you're a good woman and I can count on you to take care of those who need it in the 'hood...." 

  
  

  I'd always thought him, 20 years younger than I and always with men unless he shared three sentences with coeds passing through, almost genderless, but it was not lack of gender rising against my thigh.  I placed my palms on his chest and pushed him gently away, wondering again what hit he had taken as a little boy to keep him so in his head and out of his heart, knowing if I went to the bar, he'd let me sit while he talked to others. 

  
  

  With my arms between us, starting to move away, I stopped.  I leaned into him and kissed him full on the lips, lingering only a second, telling him that I understood him, if only in that moment, and then knelt to take Buppy from Joe, who had more customers, cigarettes and milk to sell. 

  
  

  He dropped his feet flat to the earth, became still, without the static energy crashing off his skin. 

  
  

  "My god!" he said, ever the good Catholic boy, now bald and over 40.  "You know, I remember why I always loved you.  But you mustn't love me.  That's not good for you.   Don't try and love me..." 

  
  

  He turned inward for a moment then smiled, one split second without his usual artiface, turned to walk away, then turned again and mouthed a kiss across the breeze blowing in from the lake.

  
  

  Joe reached out to take the Baroness. 

  
  

  "You know, I love you too, you pretty old lady you, you in your red dress.  Don't ever leave me.  I won't have the strength to do what I need to do if you're not there."

  
  

  "Oh, Joe, I can never leave you, you're my number 3 son." 

  
  

  I looked at his hands to see if he'd tried again to burn the embedded ink out of his skin, and promised him I'd find another way to get the tatoos gone.   

  
  

  I touched his shoulder in solidarity for a moment, then we went inside so I could get some Mighty Dog and another banana for my morning oatmeal. 

  
  

  Outside again, he fed the Baroness a little turkey breast, then I turned to go. 

  
  

  "G'night, Joe.  Hang in there.  We love you," I said, approaching the corner. 

  
  

  He too blew a kiss, then went inside to sell more junk food and condoms. 

  
  

  Jim was outside the bar, watching me at the corner.  I waved and he turned away, pretending not to see, lifting himself again slightly off the earth, attack mode. 

  
  

  Hearing, "rock and roll!" my little one ran across the street, stopping at her favorite fragrant spots to interview other dogs as I pulled up behind her. 

  
  

  Once again she raced up and down the stairs while I just climbed, dawn arriving, sleep perhaps coming with it, tears splashing down my face, wishing, oh, wishing for us all...

  
  

    

  
  

  pearlbamboo

  
  

  © 2005

  • 5:38 am
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