My new plan was to head out toward the Tombs, then work my way over to Yoors where I’d follow Lori and take my picture of her and her pal in his monkey suit. Mama didn’t raise any stupid kids, no matter what her neighbours thought.
So I gave them both a jaunty wave and set off down Gracie to where Lanois would take me north into the Tombs. Lori went up Yoors. Ruth was still standing by the stairs going down to the subway station by the time I lost sight of her, looking back through the crowds. My pink-Mohawked admirer followed me until I turned up toward the Tombs, then he went whizzing back to his friends, expertly guiding his skateboard down the congested sidewalk like the pro he was. He couldn’t have been more than thirteen.
* * *
7
* * *
When you’re a niña—and maybe twenty-one is still being a kid to some people—it’s not so weird to be worrying about who you are and how you’re ever going to fit in. But then you’re supposed to get a handle on things and by the time you’re my age, you’ve got it all pretty well figured out. At least that’s the impression I got when I was a niña and twenty-one looked like it was about as old as you ever wanted to get.
Verdad, I still don’t know who I am or where I fit in. I stand in front of the mirror and the muchacha I see studying me just as carefully as I’m studying her looks older. But I don’t feel any different from when I was fifteen.
So when does it happen?
Maybe it never does.
Maybe that explains Poland.
* * *
8
* * *
All things considered—I mean, this was Upper Foxville—it wasn’t a bad day to be scuffling around in the Tombs. The sun was bright in a sky so blue it hurt to look at it. Good thing I hadn’t forgotten my shades. Broken glass shimmered and gleamed in the light and crunched underfoot.
What’s this thing people have for busting windows and bottles and the like? It seems like all you need is an unbroken piece of glass and rocks just sort of pop into people’s hands. Of course it makes such an interesting sound when it breaks. And it gives you such a feeling of…oh, I don’t know. Having cojones, I suppose. What’s that song by Nick Lowe? “I Love the Sound of Breaking Glass.” Not that I’m into that kind of thing—okay, at least not anymore. And better it be in a place like this than on the sidewalk or streets where people have to walk or go wheeling by on their bikes.
I was feeling pretty punky by the time I’d been in the Tombs for an hour or so. That always happens when I wear my leather jacket. I may not be a real machona—or at least not capable of violence, let’s say—but the jacket makes me feel tough anyway. It says don’t mess with me all over it. Not that there was anybody there to mess around with me.
I spotted a few dogs—feral, mangy-looking perros that kept their distance. The rat that surprised me as I came around a corner was a lot less forgiving about having its morning disturbed. It stood its ground until I pitched a rock at it, then it just sort of melted away, slinky and fast.
It was early for the junkies and other lowlifes that were out in full force come late afternoon, but the bag ladies were making their rounds, all bundled up in layers of coats and dresses, pushing their homes and belongings around in shopping carts or carrying it all about in plastic shopping bags. I passed winos sleeping off last night’s booze, and hobos huddled around small fires, taking their time about waking up before they hit the streets of Foxville and Crowsea to panhandle the Saturday crowds. They gave me the creeps, staring at me like I didn’t belong—fair enough, I guess, since I didn’t—obviously wondering what the hell was I doing here. Would you believe looking for Bigfoot? Didn’t think so.
Did I mention the smell? If you’ve ever been to a dump, you’ll know what I mean. It’s a sweet-sour cloying smell that gets into your clothes and hair and just hangs in there. You could get used to it, I guess—it stopped bothering me after the first fifteen minutes—but I wouldn’t want to have to be sitting next to me on El Sub going home.
I guess I killed an hour or so before I worked my way west toward Yoors Street to look for Lori. It was kind of fun, playing Indian scout in the rubble. I got so involved in sneaking around that I almost ran right into them.
Them. Yeah, I was right. Lori was sitting on what was left of some building’s front steps, sharing a beer with a guy named Byron Murphy. Near Byron’s knee was a plastic shopping bag out of which spilled something that looked remarkably like a flat ape’s arm. I mean, the arm was flat because it was part of a costume and there was nobody in it at the moment. Come to think of it, that would make it a flat ape, wouldn’t it?
Byron worked at the sports clinic at Butler U. as a therapist. Like most of Lori’s old boyfriends, he’d remained her friend after they broke up. That kind of thing never happens to me. When I break up with a guy it usually involves various household objects flying through the air aimed for his head. You’d think I had a Latin temper or something.
I backed up quickly, but I shouldn’t have worried. Neither of them had spotted me. I thought about trying to find Ruth, then realized that I’d have to wait until later to let her in on the joke. What I didn’t want to do was miss getting this all down on film. Byron putting on the ape suit. The two of them setting up the shot. I wanted the whole thing. Maybe I could even sell my photos to The Daily Journal—“BIGFOOT HOAXERS CAUGHT IN THE ACT”—and really play the trick back on her.
Circling around them, I made my way to an old deserted brownstone and went in. After checking around first to make sure I was alone, I got comfortable by a window where I had a perfect view of Lori and Byron, and settled down to wait.
Gotcha now, Lori.
* * *
9
* * *
The best kinds of practical jokes are those that backfire on whoever’s playing the trick. Didn’t you ever want to get a camera on Allen Funt and catch him looking silly for a change? I didn’t get many opportunities to catch Lori—and don’t think I haven’t tried. (Remind me to tell you the story of the thirty-five pizzas and the priest sometime.) The trouble with Lori is that she doesn’t think linearly or even in intuitive leaps. Her mind tends to move sideways in its thinking, which makes it hard to catch her out since you haven’t a clue what she’s on about in the first place.
She gets it from her mother, I guess.
It might not explain Poland, but it says volumes about genetics.
* * *
10
* * *
I had to wait a half hour before they finally pulled the gorilla suit out of the bag. It didn’t fit Byron all that well, but did an okay job from a distance. I figured Lori would put him in the shadows of the building on the other side of the street and move the camera a bit while she was taking her shot. Nothing’s quite so effective as a slightly blurry, dark shot when you’re dealing with whacko things like a Bigfoot or flying saucers.
Me, I was wishing for a telephoto lens and a decent camera, but I was pretty sure the Vitoret would work fine. We weren’t talking high art here. Anyway, I could always have the prints blown up—and no, smart guy, I’m not talking about dynamite.
I got the whole thing on film. Byron putting on the costume. Lori posing him, taking her shots. Byron taking the costume off and stashing it away. The two of them leaving. All I wanted to do was lean out the window and shout, “Nya nya!” but I kept my mouth shut and let them go. Then, camera in hand, I left the building by the back, heading for the Tombs.
There were no steps, so I had to jump down a three-foot drop. I paused at the top to put away my camera, and then I froze.
Not twenty yards away, a huge figure in a bulky overcoat and slouched down hat was shuffling through the rubble. Before I could duck away, the figure turned and I was looking straight into this hairy face.
I don’t quite know how to describe him to you. You’re not going to believe me anyway and words just don’t quite do justice to the feeling of the moment.
He wasn’t wearing anything under the overco
at and the sun was bright enough to see that he was covered with hair all over. It was a fine pelt—more like an ape’s than a bear’s—a rich dark brown that was glossy where it caught the sun. His feet were huge, his chest like a barrel, his arms like a weightlifter’s. But his face… It was human, and it wasn’t. It was like an ape’s, but it wasn’t. The nose was flat, but the cheekbones were delicate under the fine covering of hair. His lips were thin, chin square. And his eyes… They were a warm brown liquid colour, full of smarts, no question about it. And they were looking straight at me, thinking about what kind of a threat I posed for him.
Let me tell you, my heart stopped dead in my chest. It was all a joke, right? Lori’s gag that I was playing back on her. Except there had been that article in the newspaper, and right now I was staring at Bigfoot and there were no ifs, ands, or buts about it. I had my camera in my hand. All I had to do was lift it, snap a shot, and take off running.
But I thought about what it would mean if I did that. If there was a photo to really prove this guy existed, they’d be sending in teams to track him down. When they caught him, they’d keep him locked up, maybe dissect him to see what made him work. I’ve seen E.T.
I don’t want to sound all mushy or anything, but there was something in those eyes that I didn’t ever want to see locked away. I moved really slowly, putting the camera away in my bag, then I held my hands out to him so that he could see that I wasn’t going to hurt him.
(Me hurt him—there’s a laugh. The size of him…)
“You don’t want to hang around this city too long,” I told him. “If they catch you, nobody’s going to be nice about it.”
I was surprised at how calm I sounded.
He didn’t say anything. He just stood there looking at me with those big browns of his. Then he grinned—proof positive, as if I needed it, that he wasn’t some guy in a suit like Byron, because there was no way they’d made a mask yet that could move like his features did right then. His whole face was animated, filled with a big silly lopsided grin that made me grin right back when it reached his eyes. He tipped a hairy finger to the brim of his hat and then he just sort of faded away into the rubble as quick and smooth as the rat had earlier, but there was nothing sneaky or sly about the way he moved.
One minute he was there, grinning like a loon, and the next he was gone.
I sank down and sat in the doorway, my legs swinging in the space below, and looked at where he’d been. I guess I was there for a while, just trying to take it all in. I remembered a time when I’d been camping with my brother and a couple of friends from the neighbourhood. I woke early the first morning and stuck my head out of the tent to find myself face to face with a deer. We both held our breath for what seemed like hours. When I finally exhaled, she took off like a shot, but left me with a warm feeling that stayed with me for the rest of that weekend.
That was kind of what I was feeling. Like I’d lucked into a peek at one of the big mysteries of the world and if I kept it to myself, then I’d always be a part of it. It’d be our secret. Something nobody could ever take away from me.
* * *
11
* * *
So we all survived our caza de grillos in Lower Foxville. Ruth had gotten bored walking around in the rubble and gone back to Gracie Street, where she’d spent the better part of the day hanging around with some graffiti artists that she’d met while she was waiting for us. I got my film processed at one of those one-hour places and we made Lori pay up with a fancy dinner for trying to pull another one over on us.
Some reporters were in the area too, we found out later, trying to do a follow-up on the piece in the Journal yesterday, but nobody came back with a photo of Bigfoot, except for me, and mine’s just a snapshot sitting there in the back of my head where I can take it out from time to time whenever I’m feeling blue and looking for a good memory.
It’s absurd when you think about it—Bigfoot wandering around in the city, poorly disguised in an oversized trenchcoat and battered slouch hat—but I like the idea of it. Maybe he was trying to figure out who he was and where he fit in. Maybe it was all a laugh for him too. Maybe he really was just this hairy muchacho, making do in the Tombs. I don’t know. I just think of him and smile.
Maybe that explains Poland.
6
Romano Drom
The road leading to a goal does not separate you from the destination; it is essentially a part of it.
—Romany saying
* * *
A light Friday night drizzle had left a glistening sheen on Yoors Street when Lorio Munn stepped out of the club. She hefted her guitar case and looked down at her running shoes with a frown. The door opened and closed behind her and Terry Dixon joined her on the sidewalk, carrying his bass.
“What’s the problem?” he asked.
Lorio lifted a shoe to show him the hole in its sole. “It’s going to be a wet walk.”
“You want a lift? Jane’s meeting me at the Fan—we can give you a lift home after, if you want.”
“No. I’m not much in the mood for socializing tonight.”
“Hey, come on. It was a great night. We packed the place.”
“Yeah. But they weren’t really listening.”
“They were dancing, weren’t they? All of a sudden, that’s not enough? You used to complain that all they’d do is just sit there.”
“I know. I like it when they dance. It’s just—”
Terry caught her arm. Putting a finger to his lips, he nodded to a pair of women who were walking by, neither of whom noticed Lorio and Terry standing in the club’s doorway. One of them was humming the chorus to the band’s last number under her breath:
I don’t need nobody staring at me,
stripping me down with their 1-2-3,
I got a right to my own dignity
—who needs pornography?
“Okay,” Lorio said when the women had passed them. “So somebody’s listening. But when I went to get our money, Slimy Ted—”
“Slimy Toad.”
Lorio smiled briefly. “He told me I could make a few extra bucks if I’d go out with a couple of his friends who, quote, ‘liked my moves,’ unquote. What does that tell you?”
“That I ought to break his head.”
“It means the people that I want to reach aren’t listening.”
“Maybe we should be singing louder?”
“Sure.” Lorio shook her head. “Look, say hi to Jane for me, would you? Maybe I’ll make it next time.”
She watched him go, then set off in the opposite direction toward Stanton Street. Maybe she shouldn’t be complaining. No Nuns Here was starting to get the decent gigs. In the City had run an article on them—even spent a paragraph or two on what was behind the band instead of just dismissing what they were trying to say as post-punk jingoism, like their one two-line review in The Newford Star had.
Oh, it was still very in to sing about women’s rights, gay rights, people’s rights, for God’s sake, but the band still got the “aren’t you limiting yourselves?” thrown at them by people who should know better. Still, at least they were getting some attention and, more importantly, what they were trying to say was getting some attention. It might bore the pants off of Joe Average Jock—but that was just the person they were trying to reach. So where did you go? If they could only get a decent gig. A big one where they could really reach more—
She paused in mid-step, certain she’d heard a moan from the alleyway she was passing. As she peered into it, the sound was repeated. Definitely a moan. She looked up and down Yoors Street, but there was no one close to her.
“Hey!” she called softly into the alley. “Is there someone in there?”
She caught a glimpse of eyes, gleaming like a cat’s caught in the head beams of a car—just a shivery flash and they were gone. Animal’s eyes. But the sound she’d heard had seemed human.
“Hey!”
Swallowing thickly, she edged into the alley, her guita
r case held out in front of her. As she moved down its length, her eyes began to adjust to the poor light.
Why was she doing this? She had to be nuts.
The moan came a third time then and she saw what she took to be a small man lying in some refuse.
“Oh, jeez.” She moved forward, fear forgotten. “Are you okay?”
She laid her guitar case down and knelt beside the figure, but when she reached out a hand to his shoulder, she touched fur instead of clothing. Muscles moved under her fingers—weakly, but enough to tell her that it wasn’t a fur coat. She snatched back her hand as a broad face turned toward her.
She froze, looking into that face. The first thing she thought of were the orangutans in the Metro Zoo. The features had a simian cast with their close-set eyes, broad overhanging brow and protruding lower jaw. Reddish fur surrounded the face—the same fur that covered the creature’s body.
It had to be a costume, she thought. Except it was too real. She began to back away.
“Help…me….”
This couldn’t be real.
“When they track me down again…this time…they will…they will kill me….” The gaze that met her own was cloudy with pain, but it wasn’t an animal’s. Intelligence lay in its depth, behind the pain. But this wasn’t a man wearing a costume, either.
“Who will?” she asked at last.
For the first time, the gaze appeared to really focus on her. “You…you’re a Gypsy,” the creature said. “Sarishan, Romani chi.”