Arthur Nersesian - The Fuck-Up

“There’s my main man.”

“Shake my hand, Ernie.”

“Go get ’em Ern.”

“Hey Ernie, is you still datin’ dat Loni Anderson girl?”

A fat middle-aged guy with apple cheeks, cauliflower ears, and a potato nose wore a fresh T-shirt and a white apron, and as he moseyed up along the procession of broken and dilapidated men, each one either offered a hand or a comment. I held the banister tight in one hand and the sheet tight in the other, and waited for Ernie.

“Where the hell are my clothes?”

“Well, would you looky here,” Ernie said in a loud and humiliating volume and added, “New Jersey’s awake.”

“Huh?”

“What are you talking about?” I asked.

“This ain’t Saint Patty’s day and you ain’t at McSorley’s. I’m talking about how on every major weekend the cops dump me with you drunken Jersey boys. Do me a favor when you get home and tell your friends that before they pass out here, the least they can do is wear an ID tag. Even luggage has that much. Bed space is a hot commodity in these parts.”

“Hold on.” He talked too fast for my shaky comprehension.

“You hold on. When things calm down you can call Mommie and Daddy in my office—collect.”

“No one I know would accept the charges,” I replied drunkenly but he didn’t seem to hear. He just kept walking away down the stairs, and I stood there holding the banister.

Finally I could see the front of the line moving down the stairs. The men were disappearing into a doorway. When I went through the doorway, I first picked up a tray, then a bowl, mug, spoon, and napkin. Next, someone in white put a small carton of milk on the tray, and the next guy in white put a full ladle of oatmeal in the bowl, and another guy put an orange on the tray. The last guy filled the mug with coffee. Then I took a seat. There was no exchange of words. I had trouble doing this while holding the sheet around me. Men ate everything completely, but due to my sickness, I could only eat one or two bites of the oatmeal.

“You want the orange?” someone asked me, I shook my head no.

“Geez, let him have a chance to finish.” Big Ernie appeared behind me.

“Da man say he didn’t wan it.”

“You can hold on to the orange until you get hungry” Ernie said to me.

“I got nowhere to put it,” I replied, referring to my nakedness.

“Follow me, I guess it’s time for that collect call.”

“I got no one to call.”

“What d’you mean?”

“I mean this is it.” Ernie looked to the floor and was quiet for a moment. “You telling me you have no family?”

“Right.”

“How ’bout friends?” I shook my head no. “You must be at least twenty-five.”

“Twenty-three,” I corrected.

“You seem like an intelligent, well-mannered white boy. Tell me how an intelligent white boy can live twenty-three years without a single friend? There must be someone.”

“I ain’t from here. I used to have friends, a lot of them. But…” My toga slipped, I caught it and tightened it around me again. He looked at me with pity and waved for me to follow. Leading me back up the stairs, he quickly took me to a dark and windowless side room. There, he nipped on a light revealing a mountain of old clothing.

“This is kinda the lost and found.” He then paused and smiled and added, “Actually, it’s more like the live and die. Take what you need. Winter ain’t over yet.”

“I know you don’t have to do this. Thank you.”

“If I let you go out like that,” he said, “I’ll have mini-cam crews down here doing their breaking story about how we set our boys naked to the streets.”

He then left and I rummaged through the pile of old clothes, mainly rags. They were filthy and stinky and full of holes and fleas. I dressed in layers. The cleanest undergarment that I could locate was a pair of itchy wool plaid pants that had the seams sliced open. I put these on. Over them, I pulled on a pair of army khakis with a big shit-resembling tar stain over the ass. There were no finds in that pile. For an undershirt, I found a paint-speckled T-shirt that read, “I Survived The 1980 Transit Strike.” Over that, I used a petroleum-based, fluorescent red short-sleeved shirt that felt carcinogenic. Over that, I put on first a sweater, then a jacket, then an overcoat. On my head, I placed a beanie. There were only two pairs of shoes that didn’t have serious ruptures in them; a pair of hiking boots that smelled like something had died in them, and a clownishly floppy pair of white tennis shoes. There were no socks.

I left the sheet and walked back out to the auditorium. Ernie was nowhere to be seen. Some of the guys were filing out in small groups. Ernie had a point; there had to be someone out there. I had to sit awhile. Ever since that beating, my energy was depleted easily.

“Nice wardrobe.” Ernie suddenly appeared.

“I’m sure I’ll be laughing about it tonight and I’ll make sure you’re well compensated for your generosity.”

“Are you going to be all right?”

“Oh sure, I must have someone out there. I mean, this is too absurd.”

“Well, we’re here if you need us.”

“Thanks for last night, but there’s no way I would’ve come in here of my own volition. I mean, my being here is an accident. I’m no…you know.” He nodded and departed, so I followed a gob of men leaving. Out front, some men headed east, and some west, but most just hung out front. I walked over to the Bowery. Most of the guys were just standing around a big oil barrel with a fire in it. Some of the more industrious ones were washing the windshields of cars that had been trapped by the red light. I used to see them from inside cars and think they brought it on to themselves, and they probably did but now it didn’t make a difference. I went over to the fire and warmed my hands with the group. I looked at their faces: idiots, criminals, retards, schizophrenics, paranoids, rejects, fuck-ups, broken-down failures. Alone, once children, never asked to be put on this earth, they ended up as jurors. Their lives were the verdict: the system, man, something had failed.

Heated, I walked away from the barrel and started walking west on Third as it turned into Great Jones. I passed the Bowery, passed Lafayette Street. On Broadway I vaguely recognized the restaurant on the corner with the big clean windows filled with yuppies, and then I remembered. I had eaten there with Ternevsky. It was Caramba.

Drifting up Broadway, past the youth industry, complete with all the latest fashion outposts, I was a ghost. I tried to look into eyes, but if anyone cast a fearful glance at me it was only so that they’d be sure they were avoiding me. I was no longer a member of the human club. But I had to get back in. I kept reassuring myself that if I thought hard enough I could find a solution. But I was working under a ruptured brain. Thoughts braced against the incomprehensible, straining to pick up a weight just an ounce too heavy for my thought muscles.

There had to be a way out. I had undaunting faith that by tonight I would be carefully bathed and then nestled away in a warm bed, a full meal, full in stomach. Someone would be comforting me.

When the dust settled, the most obvious choice emerged—Sarah. The circle seemed complete. She was the only possible person I could think of. A corner pay phone. I made a collect call.

I could hear her phone ringing and ringing until the operator finally asked me to call back later. I called another operator and again it rang repeatedly, and again the operator said call back. The operators were obviously screwing things up. I hung up and marched over to her apartment. When I finally found her building, I kept my finger on the door bell for about a half an hour, but got no answer. The front door was locked. I sat and waited on the chilly front stoop. Occasionally tenants passed by giving me the look—a filthy bum on their stoop.