Charlie Huston - Caught Stealing

I can’t get my shirt off over my head, so I take the scissors from the medicine cabinet and cut it off. They ripped out about nine staples and left a tear in my side just above my left hip. I drench a towel in hydrogen peroxide and use it to clean the hole. It’s bleeding, but the bulk of the stapling is intact. I get a huge wad of gauze and use it to cover the bad stuff. I have to get some electrician’s tape out of my toolbox to hold the bandage in place.

My nose is a real mess. I clean up all the goop to get a good look.It’s bright red, squashed, and bent to the left, but it has stopped bleeding. I touch it gingerly with my fingertips until I get a sense of how it has been broken and what belongs where and then I give it a rasping twist and a yank.

– Mother! Fucker!

It gives a little crackle and starts to bleed again. I tilt my head back and stuff some more gauze into the nostrils and that’s about all the time I figure I have for first aid.

The fire department has left the building and I have no idea how soon Roman and Co. might return, so it’s time to go. Bud hasn’t moved, but he’s still breathing. I get an athletic bag from the closet. I grab some clothes, my plane ticket, my ID, keys, credit cards, about a grand in cash tips from the bar. I stuff it all in the bag. Then I put in a couple towels, molding them to create a little hollow. I could put Bud in his case, but I’m afraid he’ll bounce around in there. I pick him up and tuck him snugly into the little nest of towels and zip the bag about halfway. I have him on his back so the broken leg won’t fold up underneath his body and it’s easy to imagine he’s sleeping peacefully, but he’s not. I have to get out of here.

I get a cab right away and sit in there with my head back against the seat until the driver snaps me out of it.

– Where to? This is not a taxi for sleeping in, it is for driving in. Where to?

Which is a great fucking question, I suppose.

I give the driver an address across town just off the West Side Highway. I can’t get on a plane yet. I need to get cleaned up, I need to think.

I pass out.

I met Yvonne right after she showed up in New York about six years ago. She was hanging out at Paul’s and mentioned she needed a job. Edwin put her to work. She was a few years younger than me, twenty-two at the time, and we hit it off because we were both from California. But she had a boyfriend, so I backed off. One night, I was working and she came in, her boyfriend had just dumped her. She stayed till closing and took me home.

She’s an artist, a sculptress. She uses ceramics, old rusted iron, bits of antique wood, and assorted trash to make dollhouses. She populates the houses with handmade glass figures shaped to look like people from her own life or books or TV or movies or whatever. Sometimes she sells them, sometimes she breaks them up and uses them in new pieces and sometimes she sets them on fire, takes a picture of that and sells the picture. I have two of her houses in my apartment and last year I gave another one to Mom for Christmas. I think they’re pretty cool. I think Yvonne is pretty cool. I’m just not in love with her.Which would be fine if I didn’t know she was in love with me. We carried on for quite a while, but I cut it off in the end.Mostly.

I wake up and the cabbie is pulling my arm and shouting at me:

– Not for sleeping in. You are here now, so you must pay. Pay and get out. Stop sleeping and get out.

We’re parked in front of Yvonne’s building. I shake the cabbie off, give him some cash, get my bag and step onto the curb. The cabbie doesn’t even wait for me to close thedoor, he just peels out and crams his taxi into the never-ending stream of cars sweeping past. I stand there for a moment, collecting myself. My side feels damp and the throb in my nose is worse than ever. Plus, the hangover still has my head wrapped in Jell-O. I try to buzz Yvonne, but there’s no answer.

She still has my key and I still have hers. I open the door and start up the stairs. She has a small loft on the sixth floor that doubles as her apartment and studio. I climb the steps a half flight at a time. Bud continues to breathe.

I get to the top floor and slump against the wall. I’m losing it. I support myself against the wall and walk-stumble to Yvonne’s door. It takes a while to work out the keys and, while I’m tinkering with the lock, the door opens and Yvonne is standing there still wet from the shower, wearing a robe, her hair up in a towel. She looks great. When she gets a look at me, she gives a little gasp and puts her hand over her mouth. One of the clumps of gauze falls from my nose and a stream of blood dribbles out. I smile apologetically.

– Someone hurt my cat.

And. I. Black. Out.

– Henry. Henry. Hen, wake up for just a sec, OK?

Henry, that’s me. Henry.

– Hen, doll, I have to go to work, OK? Are you with me, doll?

Henry is my name and baseball is my game.Was. Is? What the fuck?

– Henry, please, just for a sec, OK?

Henry, that’s me, but most people call me Hank. My mom, my mom calls me Henry.

– Ma?

– Henry, just open your eyes a sec, OK?

My eyes peel open. They feel gummy. It’s dark. The room is dark and through the corner of the window I can seeit’s dark outside. It’s dark out. It’s night. When is it? Where am I? I feel gummy. Every fucking thing feels gummy.

– Ma?

– No, Hen, it’s me.

Me? Well, that’s a big fucking…

– Yvonne.

– Yeah, babe. Howyafeelin ’, doll?

– Gummy.

She giggles, she actually giggles.

– Good, gummy is good.

– Crummy. I don’t feel gummy, I feel crummy.

I’m in a bed on my stomach and my body feels far away. She’s stroking the back of my head. I want to roll over and look at her, I want to ask her questions about things I don’t really remember, but I can’t. I just can’t seem to move and my eyes keep falling shut.