Remember
that fateful morning? Yes, you know the one. You awoke heavy eyed and queasy, wearing
the same pair of filthy blue jeans frayed and stained with excrement. Oh,
Henry Hulligan, her little hooligan, how your head did ache!
Where were
you? You didn’t know. Sitting upon a park bench where strangers judged your
carelessness, you leaned over the armrest, half-awake and hungover, and vomited
the previous day’s poison into a neighboring ant pile. As you wiped the
dripping strings of bile from your beard, you tried to recollect the events of
the previous night, but they only came in vague flashes of doped-up memories.
What glory…
The day was young, but the junk still surged through
your veins. Oh, the vacuous possession of the whore! How she begged
for you to prick her tongue inside your blood and poison deep until you wasted
away to nothing. Her appetite never fulfilled, she always begged for more.
A grazing class of young future scholars pointed and
laughed as you released your bile. Some of the girls covered their eyes
and squealed in disgust. Who did you see in that group of students? It was your
own daughter—blonde haired and blue eyed like her mother. She was laughing the
loudest. In your sickened state, you rose to your feet and, like a zombie,
stumbled toward her. She screamed as you embraced her, kissed her, and told her
how sorry you were and that you loved her so much. Soon the judging strangers surrounded
you, and you felt like a kicked puppy as you fell to your knees and cowered.
Sweet Henry, that was not your daughter but a scared black child on a field
trip to the park. Blame the whore, Henry! She gripped your mind! You were covered
in your own piss and shit, yet she still came first.
You ran away, as you often do; through the park and to
the city, you went to find your spot of beggary. Walk those streets, weary
traveler! Only God knows what signs await you!
Did you know that you were employed? Doubtful. A
corporate star would shine if he saw the way you and your friends devised
shifts, cuts, and various other rules of operation for beggary. Not a minute
after Little Pete punched his time card to leave the corner of Sixth and Red
River, entered you, Mr. Hulligan, eager to take your shift. The sign you
carried that day was so bleak and soggy that you could hardly make out the
fictitious scribbles drawn upon it. Were you the patriot whose acts of honor
and bravery forever scorned you with a limp? How silly you looked limping from
car to car, deceitful Henry. Was it not just the day before that you were the
newly fired man with two kids and a wife to feed? Or were you a diabetic about
to lose your foot? You savage Christian! You fundraising firefighter! You institutionalized
madman!
In the heart of that disgusting city, blending
in so perfectly, stood you on your median, walking up and down the
line of cars stopped at the light, waving to each one and attempting eye
contact to pluck their heartstrings. The sky was now filled with clouds,
leaving a gray and overcast look upon everything. Your favorite liquor was just
across the street, and how badly your mouth smacked and stuck with
dryness as you wished that just maybe you could get enough money to buy your
junk and a case of
beer. The teenagers stopped with their hands out the window, holding a crinkled
dollar. Inside the car, the group of young rebels stifled laughs as they tried
their best to look sincere. How your heart fluttered at the sight—that small
piece of your beloved whore. If I remember correctly, it was your first dollar
of the day, wasn’t it? All the money to your name was the 96 cents in your
pocket, and now, in a moment, it doubled! You bowed your head and, with a
muffled thank you, went to grab the dollar. He jerked it away and instead spat
into your face. How the spit dripped in strings from your nose and chin as you
stood too astonished to retaliate. The aroma of his breath, so powerful in the
saliva, nearly made you vomit. They released their suppressed laughter and
waved the dollar back in front of your face. You took it, desperate Henry!
Henry the whore, who charges a dollar to spit on him. Where was your dignity,
Henry? Was it in the sewer with the last needle that had entered your arm? You
promised yourself then and there that this dollar you had earned would serve a
purpose! You abandoned your shift early to find this purpose. Remember how the
clouds seemed to part just as you walked away? How that clear blue sky greeted
your new attitude? Walk on, poor Henry! Find your fortune!
And there she came like fate often does. Tucked beneath a
light pole on a nearby intersection was a cardboard sign that addressed you so
casually—“The Hooligan’s Plumbing Service – Needs Experienced Plumbers”—and
displayed its contact information. Oh, weary traveler, how your heart lifted
for the first time in months! You were a plumber for twenty-five years before the whore stole your heart. You philosopher, how through these
years you’ve reached for that second chance, and now it comes not in a needle,
nor the bones of a broken teenager, but in the form of a cardboard sign! The
twinkle in your eye went so preciously with that smile, Handsome Henry. That
spiteful dollar was quickly eaten by the pay phone, and you dialed the number
to your future.
“Hooligan’s Plumbing Service, how may I help?”
You cleared your throat and nearly forgot how to speak
properly and professionally. Your voice had grown so hoarse over those last few
years, poor Henry. You used to sing sweet lullabies to your child in your
smooth, golden voice and rock her in your scarless arms while staring
peacefully into her eyes. Damn that whore! That wretched witch! How she stole
that precious baby from you. Yes! Remember this now, and keep it close. Throw
it into the fire fueled a mile high by your sins.
“I am looking for a job. I saw a sign and thought I’d
give you a call.”
“What’s your name? Do you have any experience?”
“The name is Henry Hulligan, sir, and I have twenty-five
years of experience. Done it all.”
“Shoot, we’re in a real bind here. Need some workers
really bad. Say, if you’ve got the time, I’d like to do an interview. What’s
the soonest you can come in?”
“Today at five sound good?”
“That sounds great. Henry Hulligan, was it?”
You looked so young as you scribbled the address on a page
torn from a phone book. That boyish smile hadn’t appeared in years, although it
only lasted as long as the phone conversation, for as soon as you hung up, the
smell of bile, sweat, and excrement lifted from your clothes. What in God’s
name would you wear? With only pennies to your name and five hours until the
interview, where would you get clothes? You almost gave up, didn’t you?
In the midafternoon bloom of the early summer, you caught
her standing there, so tender and incomplete, scavenging those awful streets
for a fix. Her glowing skin encased in a halo of sunlight, she paced with her
head to the ground and her hands on her hips. You nearly turned away from your
beautiful Cynthia, didn’t you, Bashful Henry? You knew she lost her father to
the Earth and how great the need grew for you to take his place. She loved you,
you fool. Even though you were that wretched soul, she saw what once was in you
and knew that, somewhere, it was still there. And even though you had no home,
she felt your chest was hers.
“You hooligan! How awful could today become?” Sweet young
Cynthia said, her short black hair covering her brown eyes as it blew wildly in
the wind.
“I need clothes, Cynthia. I need money too. How much have
you made today?”
“You never even told me how pretty I am, you brute. How
pretty am I, Henry? Tell me please.”
She was young, you knew this. Her mind hadn’t yet formed
that shell that protected her insecurities. You were that shell. How you knew
this and used it to your advantage. Poor young Cynthia used by her own foster
father!
Cars honked to your sweet Cynthia as they passed; her
short jean shorts, which barely covered her bottom, drove men wild from miles
away. She worked this corner with a broken sign every day…just this very spot
in front of the Motel 6 where her clients often took her. She was only sixteen…
“I’m sorry. You’re beautiful…more beautiful than any
whore I’ve ever known.”
“Don’t call me that. That’s such a nasty word. I’m not a
whore; I’m a survival expert.”
“Well, then you’re the
sexiest survival expert I’ve ever known. Now have you made any money or what?”
“Would you like my money, Henry? Take all I have, and my
body too. Take my heart, and bring it with you! Take everything, why don’t you?
Leave my bones here in the gutter where they may get a wash from all the cars
that speed on by. All for you, Henry! Take it! Oh, oh. Just take it!” And then
she began to cry for you, Savage Henry. She wept not because you used her, but
because she loved the way you did it.
“I’m such a nasty girl, Henry. What would my father say?”
“I need the money, Cynthia. It’s for a job interview.”
“A job interview?” And like a woman, her sobs turned to
joy instantaneously. “What for?”
“Don’t get all excited. I need some clothes first. I’m
going to get that job, Cynthia, and I’m going to get clean. All for you.”
“Go on, my Henry! Don’t stop.”
“I’m going to buy us a house, and we’re gonna have kids, and
you ain’t gonna have to work no more, and I’m gonna buy you whatever you want,
and at night when I come home you’re gonna be waiting for me with our twelve
kids, and we’ll all be happy.”
“I love it! When is the interview?”
“Today at five. Do you have any money?”
“No, sweet Henry. I’m so sorry! I haven’t had a client
today!”
And that was all you needed to hear, for not even five
seconds later you were back on the hunt. You nearly returned to your corner,
didn’t you? But you refused. Dignity held a spark in your stomach, and if only
for a moment you tried your best to feed it. You hadn’t a clue where you were
going, but fate guided you this morning, and a feeling in your gut told you to
keep following it. So you moved through those filthy streets looking for
another sign!
“You look awfully familiar,” came a voice, and you nearly
ignored it. You stopped and turned to find an elderly man sitting outside a
café sipping on a cup of coffee. His bald head shined in the sun, and as he
smiled, he revealed a set of teeth so white you could see your reflection in
them. In the act of putting down his newspaper, he slowly rose from his seat
and walked towards you furrowing his brow in a confused and inquisitive stare.
“Yes, Yes. I know where I have seen you. You are the
beggar down the street. I have studied you, you know. I watch where you and
your friends come from when you switch places. Quite the operation you have
going. I’m impressed.”
“…”
“Don’t stand so stupid, beggar! You look like a dog. My
name is Bill.” How strange this man was to you as he extended his hand in
friendship. Could a common man treat you as an equal? You shook his hand, and
with trepidation you sat beside him when he offered you a seat. “Sit! I am an
old lonely man. I could use a chat. It’d be a pleasure.”
“I have a question for you.”
“Money?” he said as he picked up his cup of coffee, “You
want money. I will not give you money. I see those marks on your arm, and they
tell me one thing. Money to you is poison. Money is just as bad as that junk in
your veins. I won’t give you a cent. But I will buy you a meal. How does that
sound?”
“What time is it?”
“One O’clock, why?”
“I have a job interview for a plumber at five. This is my
chance. I need clothes. I need money.”
“You devil! A job interview? Amazing! You’ve seized it.
What a pleasure!”
“Seized what?”
He took a sip of his coffee and sat quiet for what seemed
to you like an eternity. “Opportunity. Why it swarms in the air. I swear that
as I get older I see entire generations piss away opportunity. They spend their
days glued to those damned phones and when their life passes and they find
themselves ankle deep in debt, then the real finger pointing begins! When I was
a boy we worked. Whether it was building skyscrapers, paving roads, or cleaning
sewers, we worked. And we loved it, Goddamnit. You know why? Because we grew up
surrounded by filth. Absolute filth! We didn’t pretend like this filth didn’t
exist. We didn’t waste our efforts distracting ourselves away from it. No. We
saw this filth and yearned for something more! It was stressful, yes, but
stress is good for the soul, beggar. Don’t get me wrong, too much of it and it
can break you, but just enough of it will make a man of you. Do you know what I
mean? Life moves in a way that requires ambition. You don’t have that and the
cogs’ll get stuck.”
Oh, Billy, that philosopher! How you sipped his words
like a fine wine. He was a sweet old man, wasn’t he? Selfless and wise. He
bought you a bacon lettuce and tomato sandwich with a coffee, and you two sat
in silence as you gulped it down. The whore was lost somewhere, and you enjoyed
every minute of her remission. You even dared to chuckle once in the
conversation.
“I tell you what, beggar. I’ll go against my instinct and
give you something to buy some clothes with. Only if you promise me you won’t
buy any junk.”
You nodded your head, and for a moment you believed your
promise. From within his wallet he pulled out a fifty dollar bill and handed it
to you with such an innocent smile. As your fingers touched that poisonous
paper, the whore sang straight into your heart. Broken Henry, how you wished
you could control it! Inside you screamed to walk away. You parted with your
friend, telling yourself you were off to buy some clothes.
Not even ten minutes later were you walking away from the
café and heading towards the corner where Marcellus worked.
****
Remember sweet Cynthia when you were but a child? How
your mother left you and your father with nothing but a note? Your father never
said a word. Only packed your things and onward you went in a trailer to
discover the world. Those days you remember so fondly, don’t you? Remember the
first time you saw a mountain? You were so confused that you turned to your
father and warned him of an oncoming thunderstorm. He laughed his hearty laugh,
then patted you on your shoulder and told you those were not clouds, but
mountains. Your eyes filled your face because you couldn’t believe how they commanded
the sky! Take these thoughts, sweet Cynthia, and fill your head with them. For
the final image of your father dying in the desert, the sand blowing and
burying his corpse, is not the image which defines him! It was not your fault,
innocent Cynthia.
You just couldn’t wait for Henry to find you. Being so
excited about his interview and those promises he made, you decided to wait
outside of the office. At four your heart pounded in your tiny chest, and you
dreamed tender pictures of Henry returning to you clean and alive. In those
dreams he didn’t make love to you in an alley-way or in the restrooms of a
movie-theater, but in a bed surrounded by candles. And he didn’t grunt and
groan his poetic songs of love, but whispered his lines sweetly into your ear.
How you played with your belly-button as you toyed with the idea of it
protruding far from your pelvis, and how you and your love would sit across a
fire in each other’s arms arguing of names, and sex, and future occupations,
and whose eyes it would have. Those pleasant thoughts drifted away when at
5:00, Henry was nowhere to be found.
****
You escaped a life of duties to be alone and “free”. What
did you think you’d find, dear Henry? What malevolent force were you searching
for? Often you preached of independence, but everybody laughed when you turned
away. You joke. You fool. You preaching imbecile. How she loved you in the most
peculiar way…
You found your whore and now she surged throughout your
veins. In the darkness of the night you sat, drifting, reaching, drooling,
against a grime-infested brick wall. The stars, blank and nowhere to be found,
were drowning in the light of a full moon. You took too much, you fool. Your
eyes were half open as you struggled to stay awake. And then off you went to another
realm. Oh weary traveler, what did you dream? It must have been fantastic,
because you never woke.
****
You searched effortlessly in the rain, crying out to
empty ears. Standing soaked across the street from the alley where you first
met him, you felt so scared at what you might find. You couldn’t help but feel
that you were being swallowed as you entered that dark alley. And there he was,
so pale and dull, staring amazed to the full moon. You screamed and took his
cold hands into yours, kissing his fingers and trying your best to not think of
your father...
“What happened, my little hooligan? Please, sweetheart,
wake up! Tell me how pretty I am, darling. Please sweetheart. Am I
beautiful?”
END
