[ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]
.“Speak up,” I tell him.“Come on.”“Al,” he says, a little louder.“Get a goddamn job, Al,” I say earnestly.“You’ve got a negative attitude.That’s what’s stopping you.You’ve got to get your act together.I’ll help you.”“You’re so kind, mister.You’re kind.You’re a kind man,” he blubbers.“I can tell.”“Shhh,” I whisper.“It’s okay.” I start petting the dog.“Please,” he says, grabbing for my wrist.“I don’t know what to do.I’m so cold.”“Do you know how bad you smell?” I whisper this soothingly, stroking his face.“The stench, my god …”“I can’t …” He chokes, then swallows.“I can’t find a shelter.”“You reek,” I tell him.“You reek of … shit.” I’m still petting the dog, its eyes wide and wet and grateful.“Do you know that? Goddamnit, Al—look at me and stop crying like some kind of faggot,” I shout.My rage builds, subsides, and I close my eyes, bringing my hand up to squeeze the bridge of my nose, then I sigh.“Al … I’m sorry.It’s just that … I don’t know.I don’t have anything in common with you.”The bum’s not listening.He’s crying so hard he’s incapable of a coherent answer.I put the bill slowly back into the pocket of my Luciano Soprani jacket and with the other hand stop petting the dog and reach into the other pocket.The bum stops sobbing abruptly and sits up, looking for the fiver or, I presume, his bottle of Thunderbird.I reach out and touch his face gently once more with compassion and whisper, “Do you know what a fucking loser you are?” He starts nodding helplessly and I pull out a long, thin knife with a serrated edge and, being very careful not to kill him, push maybe half an inch of the blade into his right eye, flicking the handle up, instantly popping the retina.The bum is too surprised to say anything.He only opens his mouth in shock and moves a grubby, mittened hand slowly up to his face.I yank his pants down and in the passing headlights of a taxi can make out his flabby black thighs, rashed because of his constantly urinating in the pantsuit.The stench of shit rises quickly into my face and breathing through my mouth, down on my haunches, I start stabbing him in the stomach, lightly, above the dense matted patch of pubic hair.This sobers him up somewhat and instinctively he tries to cover himself with his hands and the dog starts yipping, really furiously, but it doesn’t attack, and I keep stabbing at the bum now between his fingers, stabbing the backs of his hands.His eye, burst open, hangs out of its socket and runs down his face and he keeps blinking which causes what’s left of it inside the wound to pour out like red, veiny egg yolk.I grab his head with one hand and push it back and then with my thumb and forefinger hold the other eye open and bring the knife up and push the tip of it into the socket, first breaking its protective film so the socket fills with blood, then slitting the eyeball open sideways, and he finally starts screaming once I slit his nose in two, lightly spraying me and the dog with blood, Gizmo blinking to get the blood out of his eyes.I quickly wipe the blade clean across the bum’s face, breaking open the muscle above his cheek.Still kneeling, I throw a quarter in his face, which is slick and shiny with blood, both sockets hollowed out and filled with gore, what’s left of his eyes literally oozing over his screaming lips in thick, webby strands.Calmly, I whisper, “There’s a quarter.Go buy some gum, you crazy fucking nigger.” Then I turn to the barking dog and when I get up, stomp on its front legs while it’s crouched down ready to jump at me, its fangs bared, immediately shattering the bones in both its legs, and it falls on its side squealing in pain, front paws sticking up in the air at an obscene, satisfying angle.I can’t help but start laughing and I linger at the scene, amused by this tableau.When I spot an approaching taxi, I slowly walk away.Afterwards, two blocks west, I feel heady, ravenous, pumped up, as if I’d just worked out and endorphins are flooding my nervous system, or just embraced that first line of cocaine, inhaled the first puff of a fine cigar, sipped that first glass of Cristal.I’m starving and need something to eat, but I don’t want to stop by Nell’s, though I’m within walking distance and Indochine seems an unlikely place for a celebratory drink.So I decide to go somewhere Al would go, the McDonald’s in Union Square [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]