Oh, Play That Thing by Roddy Doyle
Two more of my boys had been hopped on, their shoulders smashed by baseball bats. The streets of the Lower East Side were dragging at my blood. It was old water under there and I didn’t want to find it.
But I wasn’t running away. And I wasn’t giving up on the streets I’d conquered in the summer months. I was expanding; that was what I was doing. I wanted America, not just a few village streets on a tiny island tucked into its east coast. It was too easy to be fooled by the numbers, the seven hundred souls on every acre, the clatter and screeching, the constant growth. It was all villages, shtetls, crossroads, parish pumps.
Hettie never strayed beyond her street.
—What’s to see? she said. —More faces from home.
She went to the door. It was creeping up to midnight. She looked out over the menu cards. She lifted her left arm and pointed a finger.
—Walk this way, Poland.
She dropped her arm; the flour she’d left continued to point, until it scattered when she raised her right arm.
—This way, Mother Russia.
She turned.
—I stay at home. Where I’ve always been.
She walked towards me.
—It takes me thirty years to know this. I never left home.
She kissed me.
—And now it is the way I like. How is my Mildred?
Mildred took one side and I took the other.
—What’re we looking for, big words?
—Possibilities, I said.
—Oh yare? What they look like?
But she knew.
Hettie was wrong. It was a new world, and newer the further uptown we went. Taller, wider, sparkling. I looked out, I leaned into the real Manhattan. Beep Beep got us out from under the El, and the sky was up there, corralled by sheer walls. He took us on to Broadway. The crowds were here, the pushcart pedlars – pretzels, cookies, roasted chickpeas – the open-mouthed visitors, the pickpockets, phonies and fakers, the cops and robbers, the pitchmen and barkers outside the burlesques and flea circuses, bargain stores and dance halls.
—This way for a good time, folks!
All pushing and roaring for their share of attention and profit. And all changing as I looked; there was room here for ambitious elbows. I could hear the hiss of neon and accents that were American and nothing else, hiding no old geography or muck. He is the man who owns Broadway, that’s what the daily papers say. Beep Beep took us off Broadway, and we kept our eyes peeled as he fussed across the island.
—See anything? I said.
—See lots, said Mildred. —See too much.
—What d’you mean?
—I got a feeling.
She scanned the walls and sidewalks.
—We’re too late, she said. —It’s all gone.
—But that’s it, I said. —It’s here, going and gone. It’s always changing. Do you see anything not moving? Anything built and staying that way?
Lights, billboards on top of billboards – Graduate to Camels – out-climbing the construction, climbing right out of the city. It beats – As it sweeps. And down here – As it cleans – not a sandwich board in sight. In the scramble to hang the words from the sky, they’d forgotten about the ground.
—It’s never too late here, Mildred, I said. —See anything missing?
—Nope.
—Keep looking.
Steady was alone on the roof. There was no sign at all of Fast Olaf. And Steady was dead. He was face-down in Fast Olaf’s gin bath, inside the coop, and the pigeons were upset. They flapped and crashed in a box of feathers and blood, caught in the chicken wire, on the white-stained floor of the coop, and floating dead and dying beside Steady. There were ringed claws clinging to the mesh, single wings caught tight by the wire. And the noise, Jesus. It was life being torn from meat, fighting the last and only terror. But Steady’s fight was over. His back was the back of a dead man.
I moved closer to the coop – the screams, the panic, grew even louder – and I found the hook that held the wire gate to its shaking timber frame.
I looked around me. No one that I could see, no shadow growing from stricter shadows. I looked back at Steady. My eyes walked his coat from collar to gin-soaked hem. No new small holes, no blood creeping from the holes. I looked around again. I listened. An El, and further west, another.
Go now. Now. Just go. Now.
I grabbed the hook again. I shoved my hand into feathers and crazy air.
Go. Now. Now.
I lifted the hook and pulled the gate from the timber. The chicken-wire and wood came part of the way. I pulled again, got both hands to the job. The nails slid from the frame, with shrieks I couldn’t hear. I threw the gate over my head.
I stood back quickly. Fat birds darted from the coop. I shook what was left of the walls. I beat them with my open hands. More birds fell from the cage or flew, and fell and tried to fly. They limped, or rolled. One bird pecked at the tar, slowly buried its beak in black chunks and strands.
Slowly – fuckin’ hell – the coop emptied. Some of the birds refused to leave or weren’t able to, but the insanity was gone, spread across the roof and sky.
Again, I looked around.
Go. For fuck sake, go.
I stepped into the coop, just one foot. The baked smell of shit and death swam around my head. Feathers floated on nothing; the place was airless now. It was worse than any cell I’d ever been locked into.
Go.
Another step, I was properly in. Trapped. I looked behind me. Still nothing. Less birds now. Three or four suffering silently, puffing their breasts, trying to outstrip their pain. I listened. Transport and construction, the sounds that thumped out time. No foot-clicks, breath held, finger slowly pulling metal. I was alone with Steady and the pigeons. I was sure of it, and scared.
The old bath stood on its four clawed feet. Steady’s weight had thrown some of the hooch to the floor; I could feel it in my short, slow steps. The hooch in the bath was absolutely still. No twitching wing or foot to make a ripple. Everything floating was dead.
Closer now, I studied his back again. No bullet holes or blood. I looked at his neck, the back of his head. No marks, no livid stains across his thin, soaked hair. I bent down further. No bruises, no thumb-marks – no hands had grabbed and forced his face into the bath. Years of dirt, a mole, life’s creases. Nothing recent, nothing violent.
Go.
The man had drowned.
Go.
I listened.
I plucked the pigeons from the hooch and dropped them to the floor. Five of them, heavy with the gin they’d soaked. I examined the gin. There was blood in the mix, but not much. Enough to drain the life from a homer but not a man, not even a small man like Steady, who hadn’t eaten solid food in years.
This man had drowned.
Now. Go. He drowned. Go.
I grabbed the shoulders, didn’t let myself think too much. I took two fists of saturated cloth and stepped back, slid back a few steps so the hooch wouldn’t drench me. I pulled the far shoulder first. He was dead-heavy, the heaviest thing I’d ever hefted. I thought about stopping and taking off my jacket, rolling up my soaking sleeves. I thought about just stopping. The man had drowned. I knew that. But I’d liked the man. I pulled again.
It was the coop that saved me.
Fast Olaf couldn’t manage a clean swing; the roof was too low, the walls closed in. The bat hit my back, below my hat and neck. It hadn’t the clout to kill or cripple. But I didn’t know that. I’d seen nothing, heard nothing. It was instant pain, bad pain. Unexplained, explosive.
I dropped away, let go of Steady’s shoulders. I rolled. Over feathers, pigeons, shit. I saw the legs. I knew the trousers.
—Eddie!
I saw him try another swing. He tried to beat the roof, to push it back with the bat. I rolled and got to my knees. And feet.
The butt hit my chin. Slid, and caught my ear. It hurt. Things swam. All sounds were gone. But I could see. Could see Fast Olaf out ther
And missed. I fell against the wire. It held me up. He stabbed again, and hit – my shoulder, not my face. Relief drowned the pain. And I could hear again.
—Eddie!
—Fuck you!
I couldn’t blame him. His birds were dead and dying – he was inhaling their absence and feathers. His hooch was contaminated, probably past saving.
—Listen to me, I shouted as my shoulder took another stab. Christ, it hurt. He was chipping away at me.
And maybe there was more. I’d never seen him coo at those birds, or seen him fondly count them. Maybe it was him who’d killed Steady, and he’d been waiting for me. Somewhere on the roof; he knew where to hide. He was following orders, meeting a deadline. I didn’t know, and I needed to. I didn’t want to kill him.
—Eddie!
I was in a corner. Trapped by the bath and Olaf.
—Who did this? I shouted.
It worked. I knew by the questions that bumped behind his eyes; he hadn’t come onto the roof with a plan. He’d seen what he’d seen and swung his bat.
—The fuck?
—Did you do this? I said.
He looked guilty for an Olaf-second, then growled and pointed the bat at me.
—The fuck I kill my own boids for? That aren’t even my boids.
It was only now that he noticed Steady.
—The fuck’s that?
—Steady, I told him. —He was dead when I got here. Just before you.
He gave me his suspicious look.
—Before, he said. —How long before?
—A minute. Maybe two. You should have seen it.
—I do see it. Fuck!
But he didn’t. He didn’t see it at all. He was confused. I wasn’t trapped any more. He wanted sympathy, not revenge. His mouth hung open as he looked around.
—He’s gonna kill me.
—Who?
—The guy.
—What guy?
—Just, the guy.
I watched him pick up dead birds. He leaned the bat against the chicken-wire. He held one in both hands, and let it go, and watched it drop and thump the ground.
—They all like this? he said.
—More or less, I said. —The ones that haven’t flown away. They might come back, I suppose.
He shook his head slowly.
—Fuckin’ kill me.
—Does the guy own them? I asked.
—What?
—The birds.
—Fuck the boids. But yare. He don’t own them. The next guy owns them.
—The next guy?
—The big-shot.
He looked at the bath again.
—Who’s the egg in the fucking merchandise?
—Steady.
—That his name?
—Yep.
—Who is he?
—You know, I said. —The guy who’s been painting the signs up here.
—What happened?
—I don’t know, I said. —Give us a hand. You take the legs.
He grabbed Steady’s sockless ankles and started to pull, before I’d taken hold of Steady’s shoulders.
—Hang on, I said, as Steady floated from me.
I got my hands under Steady’s arms and, together, we lifted and slid him over the rim, to the floor. Fast Olaf let him drop, but I gripped wet cloth and landed him gently. The hooch ran from his coat and from under his coat, like water from a tap. And it was clear – no stain, no red.
—He dead? said Fast Olaf.
I put my foot against Steady’s left shoulder. Then I leaned across and grabbed the coat at his other side, and pulled. My foot held him firm as his right side rose. I got my foot from under him as he dropped over on his back. More gin ran from his clothes and joined the slush. I could feel the hooch inside my boots, already getting warm.
He looked like a man who had roared as his life ran out. The dead eyes still held fury; the mouth was twisted, not yet slack and gone.
—What d’you reckon, Eddie?
—Dead, he said.
—I think you’re right, I said. —How, but?
He didn’t answer.
(And he hadn’t answered my first question either, but I’d been too thick to notice. Dead, he’d said. He’d been talking about himself; he’d been talking about the two of us.)
I looked down again at Steady. No bruises on his face, or slap marks. I put a finger behind an ear, pulled it gently towards me, and looked behind for hints. Nothing hidden by either ear.
I stood up.
—Know what? I said. —He drowned.
—Drowned? said Fast Olaf. —There’s no fucking water for drowned.
—In the hooch, I said.
I looked into the bath and saw something. I dipped my hand, arm, elbow, grabbed and pulled it out. The ladle. I gave it a shake.
—Where would this normally be, Eddie?
—What?
—This.
—There.
He pointed to the corner behind me. I looked, and saw a four-inch nail hammered into the wooden corner stake. There was a hole in the handle of the ladle. I put the ladle up on the nail and let it dangle.
—Like that?
—Yare.
—He fell in, I said.
Fast Olaf was staring at the ladle.
—The fuck how?
—He gave in to temptation, I said. —He was your best customer, Eddie.
Olaf looked down at Steady; every breath was a brand new lesson.
—He had you down as the best alky-cooker in town.
Fast Olaf looked at me.
—Yare?
—Yeah.
—The fuck I care?
—It’s a compliment, Eddie. Look. It’s simple. He saw the hooch.
I pointed at the bath.
—He saw the ladle. You weren’t here. He took the ladle. You with me?
—Yare.
—He leaned down to help himself. He slipped, or tripped. He was probably soused already. And he fell in.
—How’d he drown?
—Feel his coat. It’s saturated. It probably weighs twice as much as he does. And he was rat-arsed. He couldn’t get out. He couldn’t lift his head.
I was beginning to believe it myself.
—He got tired.
—He was helping himself to the merchandise?
-Yep.
—The fuck.
I looked at Fast Olaf’s face.
—Don’t kick him, Eddie, I said. —He’ll feel nothing. Don’t do it.
I waited until Fast Olaf was looking lost and safe again. Then I got out of the coop, and the open sky was over me. I stayed out of the shade and walked to the crates that had been Steady’s easel. There was the brush, resting on the low wall, the ledge that divided the properties. Resting. Put there deliberately, position chosen, not dropped or thrown. There was a small red tin, closed, beside the brush. Everything in proper order, left there by a man who’d taken a break. And the boards –
MOSTEL
THE TAXIDERMIST
YOUR PET
CAN
LIVE
FOREV
No black line racing away from the last letter. No spilt paint or hidden message. The man had taken a break. No one guarding the bath, except the birds; it was too much temptation for him.
I looked at the coop. Fast Olaf was bending over the bath. I could smell the hooch from here. I could smell it in my clothes, but that was a separate, more urgent tang. I could smell the hooch in the bath. I could taste it in my breath. And I remembered, now when I really didn’t want to: I’d always been able to smell it.
And so had Steady. All the long days he’d been up here, painting my signs. Alone. And he’d never given in to the exact same temptation. I could smell it – no sweeter, no stronger. No more tempting than it had been four hours earlier, or a week or two weeks
Go.
Fast Olaf was taking pigeons from the bath. And he was crying.
3
I walked.
The map was beautifully drawn, probably to scale. There were wide streets and various thinnesses, swerves and knuckles; each street was named, even those that weren’t along our route. Time and hope had gone into it. I couldn’t let the man down.
—I’ll be there, I said.
I tapped my finger on the x, on the corner of Houston and the Bowery. And I slid the map across the counter.
—You might need this yourself.
—I might, at that, he said. —I don’t get out much.
He sighed, and smiled. Then he bunched up the map and put it in his mouth.
—Evidence, he managed to say, and his eyes guided me to the ceiling.
I walked.
He was at ease in the night, away from the tall shelves and bolts of cloth. The hat, a black derby, almost silver, was on good terms with his head, and a cigarette parked on his bottom lip.
—Mister Glick, he said.
I could feel the water under us; I wanted to move. But I let him take the first step.
—Who’s looking after the shop?
—The Levines, he said. —Couldn’t agree which of them should take over, so all three disagreed to do it.
—What about your wife?
—Oh, she’s fine. She’s the only one knows where I’ll be. I didn’t tell her brothers. Tell them nothing. That’s my modus operandi. But my wife. She isn’t a Levine these days. She’s foursquare with me. I need a night out. Sometimes we go to one of the theatres on Second Avenue, she and I. I enjoy it but I don’t understand a word. Ever seen Hedda Gabler performed in Yiddish, Mister Glick?
—Missed it.
—Or Twelfth Night or Hamlet by that Shakespeare? My grandparents came over from the old country. There was no Yiddish in the house; my pop was an American. So, know how I follow it? I hold my wife’s hand. It’s the nerves in her hand or something; I can read what’s happening, pretty exactly, I’d estimate. So, there’s that. Which I like. And then there’s a couple of times a week I go out for an hour. I stroll over to Auster’s there, on Cannon and Stanton. For an egg-cream or two. I stand outside and talk the talk with the other gents there. I like the egg-creams but they ain’t a night out. My wife knows this, and she knows I won’t get slopped or come home smelling of scent.