“Offer to talk’s still open you know,” I say.
“What for? I don’t buy anyone drinks.”
“Now that you asked, I’m not sure. No place to go but home right now I suppose, not that a lot of people wouldn’t be happy with just that. But because I haven’t another pair of these”—putting them in their case—“I can’t really read and don’t feel”—putting the case into my coat pocket—“like going to bed yet and — oh shoot,” my fingers going through a soggy part of the napkin in my pocket, “I still have the pâté,” and I take out the napkin, lick my fingers where they touched it—“Excuse me a second”—don’t see a garbage can around, thinking of throwing it into the street, wrap the pâté up tight in the napkin and put it back into my pocket—“but maybe I will when I get home.”
“What was that in your hand?”
“Some pâté inside from a party.”
“That napkin? Give it here.”
I do. He throws it into the street. Pâté stays inside.
“You shouldn’t have done that.” I get it out of the street.
“What are you doing? This is Pig Avenue. Some of my closest associates are garbagemen and the ones who work this route all tell me that. Pig Avenue we’re standing on, and that at the corner going into it is Pig Street.”
“I don’t like contributing to the mess, what can I say?”
“Then give it back. I don’t mind contributing. Everyone else is a pig, why not us?”
“If I gave it back I’d still be—”
“Then put it in your pocket and squash it without knowing it and send your coat to the cleaners for ten bucks and still not get out the stain.”
“I’ll find a garbage can one of these nights.”
“Good for you. But bed? You were saying something before about bed? You’re still too young to climb into one alone, or young enough after you got old enough to go to bed alone. Get yourself a chickie for the night or what’s considered life. I’ve had them — plenty, too many, but you don’t have to believe that and presumably won’t. But five wives and a child from each of them, none of whom — wives or kids — want to see their boo-boozing me-thuselahing ex-husband and pop, if you’ll allow me such verbal abuse, for I’m obviously with a very cultured man. And now I’m too old to remember what I was saying to you, so I’m finding a cop and going back with him to retrieve my lawful bar seat and maybe create a trifle more excitement in that godawful boring place,” and starts downtown again. He stops at the corner, hand holding the hat to his head, waits for some cars to pass or light to change. Light changes and cars stop at the crosswalk but he goes down the sidestreet and once past the corner building is out of sight.
“Out of my way, you dumb humpky,” I hear him say. “I’ve had a tough enough night for one drunk and also don’t have a cent to my name.”
Derelict comes out of the sidestreet looking back at what I assume is the man. Sees me and limps over. Has shoes. “Say you—”
“No really, wish I could help, have a good night,” turning my back on him.
“Same to you and God bless you,” and I say to him “Same to you and God bless you too,” and go, uptown, thinking I had that last guy wrong all right and that I haven’t said God bless you to anyone for many years except occasionally when someone sneezed, when in front of me I’d say a couple of blocks away there’s this metal and glass crash: two cars, two trucks and a car or something like that, though I doubt a motorcycle or bike was in the crash because of the type of loud tire shrieks and all that shattered glass, and right after I hear it I throw my arms up to my eyes and spin around shoulder slightly raised so with my arms it also protects my face and see the panhandler looking as if oblivious to the noise stopping a woman who’s peering past me to where the sound of the crash was and maybe what she now sees: a car aflame, smoke or human torch in the street, turns to him as if she didn’t see anything unordinary and unlatches her shoulder bag. I turn around and don’t see or hear anything but what I’d think would be normal vehicular traffic for this weather, time and day, though one person is leaning out of a second-story window in the direction of the crash.
“What was that crash?” the woman says.
“Something smashed, dear?” he says. “The ears. They don’t hear from anywheres faraway.” His hand’s out. She puts in it a pamphlet from her shoulder bag and says “Do you mind if I speak frankly, sir?”
“Speak the way you please, dear. I’m a scandal, I’m a dungheap.”
“Not whatsoever. But in this small tract are the world’s wisest and most helpful words—”
“That’s so, dear?” turning it around and over several times, walking away reading it and saying while his finger jabs the air “Mat, flap, trap, frat, aspeduty three, crap tract four, roger, roger.” She sees me looking, I turn thinking “That’s so” for “That’s true” might be better I think, in a few seconds she’s behind me saying “Pardon me, sir, but may I interest you in a timely article on why we’re here eternally and what we’ve to expect?”
