Кен Бруен - The Hackman Blues

‘One of us does.’

This got the blank look and, ‘What?’

I got outa bed and yeah, wouldn’t you know, my joints creaked loudly.

The guy moved his hands along his chest, asked, ‘Would you like a little wake-me-up?’

‘I’d like two things.’

He gave me a practiced sensual look, ran his tongue across his top teeth. Rough beginning to a day, rough trade indeed. He near whispered, ‘Anything... any amount.’

‘Coffee and your ass outa here.’

He got dressed as I made the coffee. I’d run outa whitener so it was black and bitter — like Brixton, according to the Metropolitan Police.

I prised a tenner out of my wallet and the guy said, ‘I need a hug.’

‘Here’s cab fare — hug the driver.’

As he left, he paused for an exit line:

‘You’re not as tough as you think.’

‘You got that right.’

‘Call me?’

‘First opportunity.’

‘Goodbye then.’

‘Good something...’ and as the door closed, I added, ‘riddance’, but not with much intent.

You ever hear of Grace Maria Kennedy? Not one of your better known poets. She belongs to the Ann Sexton school of mania. I had her collected poems and, I dunno, they give me such comfort. Or, to grab the current idiom — identification. Fuck it, I just like them. I took down the volume, lip mouthed some lines from ‘Levels’:

Ending school at seventeen

as I was then

a gutter’d level was

what they foresaw for me

I half elated

on some reputation tough

as I believed

believed thru years astray

should manic give me

A level

lower.

The key words always leapt — elation — mania. The words of my existence. I saw a tele-movie called Nest Of Spies and, as everything disintegrates, Powers Booth shouts at his wife: ‘Keep taking the crazy pills and shut the fuck up.’

As the coffee lined my gut, I thought, I’m the wrong call of fifty, gay, and manic depressive, and said aloud in Gene Hackman voice, ‘Jeez, my goddam cup overfloweth.’

I turned on the radio, turned it on loud. Juice Newton belting out ‘Angel of The Morning’ and wow, what a name. You’re bopping down the street and the brothers go: ‘Yo’, Juice!’ Yeah.

I was getting manic. Always happens when I drink, it’s like it neutralises the medication. So I brewed some more caffeine and got that lithium down.

Up/down the jangled dance... who wins?

I put the poems aside. Let it rest on Larry Kramer’s ‘Faggots.’ Seemed appropriate, if not important. Few years back, I came across a piece of graffiti, it read: ‘My mother made me a homosexual.’ Underneath, in brackets, was written, ‘If I send her the wool, will she make me one too?’ Time to open the envelope. And the Oscar goes to...

The wad of money came out first. Neatly banded in large denominations. I figured the building game wasn’t in crisis, after all. Then a six-by-four full face photograph. My first instinct was — Jeez, what a dog! Allowing this was a studio portrait, with all the help of lights and a professional photographer, God only knew how ugly she really was. Straight, dark hair, bad eyes. They had that lidded look of the very drunk or of a lazy reptile. A snub nose and a thin mouth. She looked about eighteen. On the back were the details

Name: Rosaleen/Roz — Born: 3rd January, 1975 — Eyes: Brown — Hair: brunette — Height: 5-feet, 2-inches — Weight: 100 lbs — Friends: Alison Kee (phone number and address) — Distinguishing Marks: Tattoo of small bird on left inside wrist.

Reminded me of a memorial card and I hoped it wasn’t ominous. It saddened me that such a young girl had only one friend. I tried to shrug it off, saying, ‘What’s it to me, I couldn’t give a rat’s ass if she was little Miss Popularity.’ I’d only to find her, not sort her.

Had a shower and towelled off in front of the wardrobe mirror. I skipped the preening but had a sneak analysis. If I stood up real straight I managed five-feet-eleven. My torso had a beat-up effect which was the result of being beat up... often. I did rigorous stomach exercises daily but it hadn’t kept a growing pot belly at bay. Shit, I’m fifty-two — who gets a washboard effect after fifty? Maybe I’d get that gut suction job like Kenny Rogers. Yeah... and maybe get lucky too. Dream on.

I was carrying weight all right and not just in my attitude. But some of it still came in as muscle. My hair was fucked, gone and missed. Not that I was bald but getting there way too fast. A broken nose and a mediocre mouth. But hey... I got good eyes. Wide, blue and understanding. Leastways the guy last night said and that was before I gave him cab fare. Some guys, their faces look lived-in, gives a hint of character and experience. Mine...? Naw, it was squatted in for more years than the landlord cares to admit. Did you ever see A Perfect World? Clint Eastwood, Kevin Costner and directed by ol’ Clint. Kevin Costner says to a kid, ‘We got a lot in common. We both love RC cola, both got pappas not worth a damn, and we’re handsome devils.’ I said this to Roz’s photo and smiled a little. It was truer than I knew.

Maybe the job could be done by phone, she could be holed up with her one friend. So I rang her. It was picked up fast.

‘Hello... is that Alison?’

‘Y-es.’

‘Oh good. Hi Alison... I’m trying to locate Roz.’

‘Fuck off.’

‘Was it something I said?’ I asked the empty receiver.

Elias Rasheed Mohammed. That was his name during the Muslim phase. I called him Reed. We met in Wormwood Scrubs.

Before the lithium worked its magic, I was on and off a sundry of medication. Few worked. I got two years for GBH and had been sent to the Scrubs. Back in the glory days of two-man cells. The screw sniggered as he pushed me in.

‘You get to bunk down with the Holy Man, Brady.’

‘Holy?’

‘Yeah — like Holy Terror.’

And he gave a guffaw. Not an easy thing but pig ignorance helps. One bunk was neatly made, all squared away with a book resting on the pillow. I picked it up — The Koran — and slung it. Madness was dancing in hot white waves across my brain. Cookin’ mania.

I lay on that bunk. A while later a black man showed. Near six-foot-two, he appeared to glow, due to the sheen of his skin and shaved head. Built for endurance.

He said, very quietly, ‘Get yer ass off my bed, whitey.’

Two seconds to leap from the bed and smash into him. Then I rammed his skull against the bars and ended with a power-driver to his chin. Out cold. I stood over him and fought not to stomp his face. Moving back against the door, I braced there, my leg ready to level his head. When he came to, he shook his head to clear the vision, propped up on one elbow, looked at me, said. ‘There’s more where that came from.’

It hung there for a few moments, then we started to laugh. We’re been friends since. Way to guess, else I’d have killed him.

He fought my corner for the time it took to build my rep’. Not that it took long — my mania was in full roar. Cons are especially wary of a madman. In a world of random, casual violence, unpredictability is fearsome.

Those years, Reed helped me channel the ferocity and to utilise it. He was a car thief, doing five years.

‘Yo’ baby... I drool for a set of wheels.’

For a few months I listened to his black power rap then one day snapped.

‘Reed, give it a bloody rest! You probably grew up in Maidstone. I was born and reared in Brixton.’

“Don’t dis me, mon.’

‘Dis you! For fuck’s sake will you listen to him. Sidney Poitier has more street cred.’

He leant over to ins small collection of books. Selected one and ran his hand reverently along the cover. Then solemnly offered it. Like some priest of blackness. I snatched it. Elridge Cleaver — “Soul On Ice’.