"Hello," I say, offering thy hand, the one the dog licked. "Pat
Baternan."
The bum stares at me, panting with the exertion it takes to sit up. He
doesn't shake my hand.
"You want some money?" I ask gently. "Some… food?"
The bum nods and starts to cry, thankfully.
I reach into my pocket and pull out a ten-dollar bill, then change my
mind and hold out a five instead. "Is this what you need?"
The bum nods again and looks away, shamefully, his nose running,
and after clearing his throat says quietly, "I'm so hungry."
"It's cold out, too," I say. "Isn't it?"
"I'm so hungry." He convulses once, twice, a third time, then looks
away, embarrassed.
"Why don't you get a job?" I ask, the bill still held in my hand but
not within the bum's reach. "If you're so hungry, why don't you get a
job?"
He breathes in, shivering, and between sobs admits, "I lost my
job…"
"Why?" I ask, genuinely interested. "Were you drinking? Is that why
you lost it? Insider trading? just joking. No, really - were you
drinking on the job?"
He hugs himself, between sobs, chokes, "I was fired. I was laid off."
I take this in, nodding. "Gee, uh, that's too bad."
"I'm so hungry," he says, then starts crying hard, still holding
himself. His dog, the thing called Gizmo, starts whimpering.
"Why don't you get another one?" I ask. "Why don't you get another
job?"
"I'm not…" He coughs, holding himself, shaking miserably,
violently, unable to finish the sentence.
"You're not what?" I ask softly. "Qualified for anything else?"
"Tm hungry," he whispers.
"I know that, I know that," I say. 'Jeez, you're like a broken record.
I'm trying to help you…" My impatience rises.
"I'm hungry," he repeats.
"Listen. Do you think it's fair to take money from people who do
have jobs? Who do work?"
His face crumples and he gasps, his voice raspy, "What am I gonna
do?"
"Listen," I say. "What's your name?"
"Al," he says.
"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… ****." 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 ***got," 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 ****ing 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 **** 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 ****ing ******." 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.
