CLINTON ST. QUARTERLY put me on my back. I still can remember looking up at the stars for only a few seconds, yet thinking how majestic they were, sparkling through a thin little wisp of cloud that appeared to be drifting swiftly away; while all around me the ground was thundering with chaos. A few seconds later I kipped up and, although my head was throbbing, I had sense enough to duck another swipe and deliver a doublebarreled fist deep into the protruding gut of the first and only policeman 1 had ever driven down to his knees. Flashbulbs were popping all around me, and the police began swinging their nightsticks making for the cameraman. I saw my chance to scat and 12 seconds later I had run a hundred yards, working on another hundred, and wondering what Joe Stahoola would say. Joe told me the press made the police look bad. He said that they never reported all the abuse thrown at some clean-cut all-American family men who were just doing their job. They never reported the atmosphere of tension and how wired the police were because of it. I didn’t agree with Joe, but then Joe is a good man. Joe Stahoola is a private eye. And these guys on my right, Lee Marvin and his partner Jack Webb, were a couple of private dicks who had seen it al. So I couldn’t help it. I was involved. I wanted to be friends with these guys. 1 wanted to show them that 1was cool. That Iwas a big man. I was going to do it! I was going to express myself once agiin! I sucked in my stomach, threw out my chest, swaggered my head because I’m dependable and I’m tough as nails, and banged down on the bar with my fist! I could even hear my instincts screaming, “ For Pete’s sake, speat softly! Speak softly! Speak softly!” But I yelled out as arrogant and loud as can be, and maybe even a little bit hysterically, too, with a perfect imitation of Mayor Daley’s voce: “ Ah, ah, dat’s right! Eh? Eh? Ya don’t tink about dat, do ya? Why, why ya journalists are all da same. And dat’s right! And, and, dat joes for ya too, Walter! Dat’s right' Ya journalists don’t wanna print boat sides a da story! And dat’s right! Let me tall ya dis about da cidy ah Chicagah and, and da finest police force in da world. Dat’s right! Da police aren’t here ta promote disorder. No! Dare here ta preserve disorder!” I did a damned good imitation. So good that Lee’s partner, Jack Webb, tells me to slide on over and he’ll buy me anothei beer. My instincts were screaming, -Get the hell out of here! These guys ain’t amused!” But hell! They were smiling so sincerely and filling me with beer. They were my friends. Out oi the corner of my eye I began to notice Jack’s left hand slide behind my back. And then I couldn’t see it anymore. And then the lights went out, pal. • • • It had the consistency of Cream of Wheat and there were tiny granules in it that felt like sand. Actually, you know, for the first 30 seconds it didn’t feel too bad. And then I noticed the smell. It smelled like spoiled Liederkranz and melted Hershey bars, with a hint of rotting fruit. And my neck hurt. It hurt bad. Everything was black, too, and I couldn’t see a thing. I tried to pick myself up, pushup style, but I had trouble finding my hands. I knew they were at my side, but something was holding my arms in. That something felt like metal. I struggled a bit, pushing outward with my arms, and then I heard a couple of tin cans roll toward my face. And then I had it figured out. I was face down inside of a garbage can. Now I knew why my neck was hurting so bad. About a minute later I actually realized how I got there. Me and my loud mouth. What a world. “ All right, tough guy,” I said to myself, “ you’re six feet tall and 200 pounds of iron. You’re a hard man. You know the score. You’ve been around. Now what are you going to do?” 1 started to cry. I could feel those warm tears sliding over my nose and into the cheesy stinking mush my face was buried in. This was too much. There was only a flicker of light remaining in an ego that was about to leave this world forever. 1 had to act quickly. So I hooked a foot around my ankle, bent my knees slightly, and That woman planted a kiss on me as warm and firm and hungry as Fve ever been kissed . . . started to swing my legs, forward and back. Pretty soon I had some momentum built up, and the can started to lift a little and then rock off balance. And then it tipped over and a few soup and beer cans rolled out along with a pair of legs. I felt like a tired old hermit crab checking out of another transient shell at the bottom of the deep blue sea. I stood feeling wobbly and light headed, and bathing in the effluvium of my new-found cologne. I could feel a warm, thick coating of that strange flowing compound I had become so familiar with slide down over my face and neck like melting wax. With a sentimental hint of nostalgia I sang a line from a song that took me back to the summer of ’68. I sang in a whisper. MacArthur’s Park is melting In the dark A ll that sweet green icing Flowing down on me. Yeah, that palooka knew just what he was doing. Waves of pain were shooting through my neck and shoulders, so I figured he must have chopped me a good one. 1 was lucky he didn’t kill me. I was groggy with pain, more than a bit drunk, and reeked like a cheese factory, but I was lucky. All I needed was a cold shower to wash off that cheesy mush, and then a hot, soothing bath whdre I could roll back my head and close my eyes. I began to unbutton my shirt. Yeah, that’s all I needed. And maybe a tender, loving woman, now that I think about it, who would keep her mouth shut and speak to me with her eyes, and listen to that load of bullshit that I would have to say, knowing full well it’s frustration talking and not really my heart. A lovely light-footed woman who’s wiser than me, and would come over to my bed when I ’m lying on my stomach with nothing but a towel over my ass, and apply firm, prodding, fluid kneading, and warm, constant fingertip pressure all over my aching back and deep into my traps, teres minors, infra-spinatus, teres majors, and latissimus dorsis. Yeah .. . . A woman who, when I roll over, I can take in my huge weary arms and know that she’ll warmly accept every last drop of love I can deeply squeeze into her. That’s all I needed. I took off my shirt, turned it inside out, kissed it goodbye, and swabbed down my head and torso with it, before rolling it into a ball and tossing it toward those cans. The moonlight was shining off the filthy pavement. The buildings on either side of me were close together. I heard a window slam from somewhere up and behind me, .and a quick, nasty shriek from an alley cat. And then I heard the lonely sound of my footsteps. All I had was a rusted-out Renault Dauphine with a makeshift clutch cable and a temperamental trans. But, hell, I was lucky. They call it L.S.D. Lake Shore Drive. And, as I see it, it’s the best view of the city, hands down. The lake on my right was one dark shadow with a rippling ladder of moonlight sparkling off the easy-rolling waves; at about 2:00 in the morning it starts to sing a soft blues song for those tired hard drivers cruising home from another bad night. It was singing to me. It sent a soothing breeze through the open window of my Dauphine, while the misty red taillights from the few cars up ahead spoke softly to my eyes. They were saying: “ relax .. . . ” To my left the jeweled highrises lighted up the sky with wealth. Penthouses and condominiums, with a leisurely lake view for jaded, complicated people sipping brandy and playing backgammon in leisure clothing of the finest fashion — tailored, very — and some in no clothing at all, feeling that lake breeze tickle its fingers lightly over their flesh. Someday I might have a client up there, no different than a hundred other privileged, complicated clients with some lettuce to leaf out and a seamy little secret to share. My time would come. Joe Sfahoola once told me that my time would come. And until that time I’d have to keep learning from my mistakes. Joe always told me if I had to make mistakes, then at least 1 could take the time to learn from them. “ Don’t waste your mistakes,” he’d say. So I leaned an arm out of the old Renault and gave it a thought. Sure, I had a loud mouth. If only I had spoken softly I might have shown Judy that I had a sympathetic ear, instead of proving that I was nothing but a selfish clown. If only I had spoken softly, those pals of mine at the bar might have at least shown me a little respect. Hell, my instincts told me to speak softly. They also told me to lay off the Mayor Daley imitations. If only I had listened to my instincts. I was discovering the final part of this evening’s lesson when a bright red Alfa Romeo roadster swooshes alongside of me. Behind the sportwheel was a gorgeous dame with long, flowing, wild red hair swimming in the wind. She gave me a big wink and let her tongue flick suggestively over her lips as she gave me the come-on wave to signify that I should follow her for a “ good time.” That’s all it took. A little come-on wave from a horny dame, and I had it all figured out. “ Pal,” I said to myself, “ no matter what transpires during your temporary existence in this life remember these three things: “ 1. Speak softly “ 2. Always trust your instincts “ 3. Watch the hands (a man can kill you with his hands).” I could hear the lake singing that lonely blues song as I followed the doll in the Alfa Romeo. A nice lightfooted woman could do me some good. 1 watched her long red hair swimming wildly in the wind, and I could tell that she was watching me in her rearview mirror. She probably had eyes like a wild mare, and I bet I had her foaming at the mouth with desire. 1 drifted into the right-hand lane, turning off at the La Salle Street exit, and let that dizzy broad find her own way home. © 1980 The Chicago Reader Pete Trotter Old Town Optics Custom Design Specializing: Sports Eyewear Racquetball —Skin diving Mountain Climbers Ski Wear 214 N.W. Couch Street Portland , Oregon Complete Optical Service Eyewear for the Active Adult 222-1738
RkJQdWJsaXNoZXIy NTc4NTAz