They are always hostile, always hungry, always covered in spots from the sweets they consume to cheat hunger. They dye their hair and alter their pants with multicolored patches. Red is hopelessly older. Not in years, but in questions he asks himself. Young Rats are not concerned about tomorrow. Their life begins and ends today. It is today they need that extra piece of toast, it’s today they need that new song, it’s today they need to take the only thing that’s on their mind and scrawl it in huge letters on the bathroom wall. Rats suffer from constipation but they’d still eat anything anytime. And fight over food. And over who sleeps where. And after the fight is over they’d listen to more music and eat again, with even more delight.
With all their complaints they come to Red. With the most painful zits and abscesses they come to Red. Busted Walkmans, drained batteries, lost possessions—they all come to Red. Except Squib, Solomon, and Don. Those three despise him. With each day their whispers become louder, laughs more insolent, conversations more hushed. They keep him constantly terrified, relishing the effect immensely. Red wanders at night, sleeps in uncomfortable places, and dreams of slitting the throats of all three, one after the other. Sometimes he twists open all faucets in the bathroom and plugs all drains. Then takes a shower in his clothes and leaves, the squelching sneakers parting the waters. He goes to the card players. He plays, dripping water on the cards. The players don’t say anything, because he’s a Leader.
The outfit Red has chosen for tonight’s stroll is completely black. Only the white sneakers flash in the dark as he goes, two bright spots betraying his presence. A sleeping bag dangles off his shoulder. It’s blue with yellow dots. Red is looking for a secluded corner where he could sleep, wrapped in the warm cocoon. He stops at the Crossroads. Elephant is moving through the space, barely illuminated by the moonlight, inspecting the windowsills. Red watches him. Then puts the sleeping bag down, sits on it, and lights a cigarette. And waits. Patiently waits.
Four card players are cooped up in Vulture’s tent. It’s cramped inside. Every awkward movement makes the canvas shudder and the multicolored lights sway under the triangular roof. Shuffle’s collar is bristling with dull spikes. There’s a trail of blood down his cheek from a scratched boil. He touches his finger to the spot and examines it.
“Not that damn thing again!”
“Got anything to drink?” Noble says, rubbing his eyes, tired of the lightbulb rainbows.
Dearest is swishing something hastily in a tin cup.
“Soon, very soon, dearest. In the meantime there’s plain water, if you’d like.”
He hands Noble a flask. Noble drinks and returns it. Dearest sighs mournfully. The cigarette in Vulture’s teeth drops down a column of ash, showering the blanket in sparks. Crickets chirp in the speakers of the boombox.
Smoker and Tabaqui drive down the dark corridor. Suddenly a red cone flashes in front of them. It becomes blue the next moment. Then yellow. After cycling through six different colors, the cone blinks off, and it’s dark again.
“What’s that?” Smoker whispers.
“Vulture’s tent,” Tabaqui says.
They drive closer. Now the tent is shining and twinkling in every color at once, and it’s possible to hear voices from inside it. The entrance flap is pushed open and someone crawls out on all fours.
“Hey,” says the someone as he bumps into them. “I’m bailing out. Wanna play?”
“Hey, Shuffle,” Tabaqui calls back, turning to Smoker and handing him the backpack. “Listen, my friend, could you manage hanging around here by yourself for a bit? I need to talk to the guys, if you don’t mind.”
He tumbles out of Mustang and speedily crawls inside the tent.
Shuffle’s flashlight runs away, jumping from side to side. Smoker is alone. He listens to the voices coming from the tent and waits for Tabaqui until he runs out of patience. He drives closer, pulls out the brake, and slides down. Then he lifts the flap.
“Hey. Can I come in too?”
Beauty and Doll are kissing on the stairs. The trash can next to them and the cigarette butts strewn about concern them not at all. A pocket radio buzzes softly under Doll’s sweater. They devour each other with fevered mouths, opening wide like hungry chicks. Their kisses are passionate, interminable, and painful. From time to time they let go of each other and rest, touching their foreheads and furtively wiping their wet mouths. Their lips are swollen and sore. They only know how to kiss. Or maybe they don’t even know that.
