Charlie Huston - Caught Stealing

I’m sweating. It’s very cool in my apartment, but I’m sweating because these freaks three feet away from me are scarier than anything else that’s happened today. The little one finishes writing, tears the page out, tucks the pen and pad away and turns back to the door. He slips the note into the crack between the door and the jamb, but the gap is too big and the note drops to the floor. Both he and the big one bend to pick up the note at the same time. They don’t bump heads, butit’s close. They both straighten and look at each other, waiting; then they bend again at the same time. This time they bump. They straighten again and stare at each other. The big one finally picks up the paper. The little one grabs the paper from the big one, pulls up a corner of the police seal on Russ’s door and sticks the paper underneath. Then they leave.

I wait a half hour before I go out and read the note. It says, “Russ, just stopped by to say hello.Deeply concerned. Please call.Ed and Paris.”

And the number of a cell phone.I don’t touch the note, I read it as it hangs there on the door and as soon as I finish I dash back into my apartment. I have a feeling that these guys aren’t really deeply concerned about Russ at all.

I’m drunk. I’m at Paul’s and I’m drunk and I’m not sure how I got here. It had something to do with cowboys and being scared. I know I’ve done something stupid, severalsomethings stupid, but one big thing in particular. I’m just not sure what it is.

Edwin is working the bar. Wait, that’s wrong, I’m the bartender,I should be back there. I stumble off my stool and try to circle around the bar and someone takes me by the arm and sets me back down. It’s Yvonne. She’s telling me to take it easy and putting a glass in front of me. I take a drink. It’s water.

– What the fuck? What the fuck’s with the water?Yo, Edwin, let’s have a beer.

Edwin ambles over (he does that, he really ambles) and plops a Bud down in front of me. I take a pull and nothing comes out. I take a look at the bottle. The cap is still on.

– Yo, Edwin.The cap. Pull my cap.

– Get that cap off and you can drink that beer.

I wag my finger at him.That Edwin, he’s a crafty fucker. There’s something in my hand; it’s a beer. I try to take a drink, but the cap is still on. I twist the cap and it doesn’t pop off. I put the lip of the cap on the edge of the bar and give it a good rap with my fist. I rake my knuckles across the bar and the bottle pops out of my hand onto the floor,spritzing beer. I stuff my bleeding knuckles into my mouth.

– Yo, Edwin, I need another brew here.

– Yvonne, can you put a lid on him?

– Who thefuck are you calling Yvonne? Let’s have a beer, huh?

I feel something against my feet. I look down and Yvonne is leaning down, cleaning up a beer some numb-nuts has spilled on the floor.Fuck, that pisses me off. I bend to help her and slide off my stool and someone catches me before I bite it. It’s Amtrak John.

– AmtrakJohn, thanks for the save, man.

– Sure.

– You’re a big motherfucker, Amtrak.

– Yep.

– Big fucker.

– Yep.

– Wannafight?

– Sit here.

I’m on my stool and Edwin is passing me a glass. He gives it to me with his right hand, the one withRUFF tattooed across the knuckles in ink blacker than his skin; the other hand readsTUFF. I laugh as I drink the water and most of it sprays.

– You’re a funny fucker, Edwin. A fun-nyfuck-er!

– Thanks, man.

– Those fucking tattoos, man. Fun-ny!

– Thanks.

– Yawannafight?

– Nope.

– Shit. Nobody wantsta fight. What’s with that?

I lift my head from the bar. The bar is empty and all the lights are on. Edwin is stacking stools. I get off mine and start to help him. He looks at me.

– Take it easy, man, I’ve got it.

– It’s cool, I’ll help,I can help.

– Just chill. Sit still.

I’ve got a jacket. I’m not sure if it’s mine, but it fits.

– Edwin, this my jacket?

– Yeah, that’s it. Just hang on andme an’ Yvonne will getya home.

– IsYvonne here? When’d she get here?

Yvonne is holding my hand. We’re on the curb. Edwin has just climbed into a cab and taken off and now Yvonne is trying to get me into a cab.

– Come on, I’ll take you home. You can stay over; I’ll make some breakfast.

– Naw, I’m gonna walk.

– Then I’ll walk with you till you get home.

Yvonne is such a sweet girl. She loves to look after me, but she just doesn’t realize I’m not safe to be around. I mean really, who knows what’s waiting for me at home?

– Nah, nah, I’ll just walk. I gotta call Rome.

– You gotta call Rome?

– Roman, I gotta call Ro-man.About the fucking cowboys.

– Jesus, are you betting football? I thought you hated football.

– Football is a bitch’s sport. Baseball, that’s a fucking game. That’s a sport.

– Come on, get in the cab.

– Nah, gonna walk home.

– Then I’m coming with you.

– Nah.Gonna walk alone.Safer that way for you.

– I don’t need you to fucking protect me from myself, forchrissake. Fucking go home alone. Fucking get home safe, will you.

I’m walking home. It’s tricky. I push off with my right foot and drift for a moment, balancing on my left. I swing my right foot out in front of myself and lurch down onto it with a jolt. Then I push off with my left and repeat the process. The walk around the block from Paul’s to my building is revealed in snapshots, a picture taken every time I plop down on my front foot. I stutter home and it feels like the very early morning darkness is illuminated by strobe light. I have a picture of my key in my hand, a picture of flipping a light switch, a picture of struggling out of my jacket and a picture of collapsing into bed.And no dreams at all.

I wake up just a few hours later and I feel wrong. I’m not sure where or who or what I am. Bud is meowing up a storm. I look over the edge of the bed and am pleased to see I didn’t throw up on the floor in the middle of the night. I’m wearing all my clothes and the lights are on and something about my pants and the way they fit is off. I don’t need to look. I can feel it. I’ve pissed myself in my sleep. I’ve pissed myself and crapped myself.

I try to get up without sitting. I try to roll off the bed because I don’t want to sit in the crap in my pants. I roll off and stand. I’m half-drunk and half-hungover. My stomach is a pile of nausea and my head feels like it’s floating painfully a foot above my shoulders. I stumble to the shower and get in with my clothes on. I run the water hot and strip off my filthy pants and underwear. I push my clothes into a pile in a corner of the shower and clean myself in the scalding water. Then I turn the water to cold and stand in the icy blast as long as I can. Shivering badly from the booze and the cold, I towel off. Bud is still making a racket while I dress in clean jeans and a sweatshirt. The blankets on my bed are untouched, but the sheets are urine stained. I strip them off. I bundle the sheets into a black plastic garbage bag and stuff my dirty clothes on top. I pull on some sneakers and limp painfully downstairs to the street.

Outside I dump the bag of filth on the curb with the rest of the garbage. I stand hunched against the bright morning sun and the alien feel of my body. I look around and Jason is standing a few feet away, leaning against a wall mumbling tohimself. And the shame I feel overwhelms me. I have no reason, no right, to do this to myself. Life has been good to me. Life has been good to me. I say it out loud:

– Life has been good to me.

I know it’s true, but I don’t believe it. I look at New York. I don’t want to be here anymore, in this city. I’m just tired ofit, I’m tired of my life here. I want to go home, and I’m not sure how to do that.