Russell Banks - Lost Memory of Skin

Once he’s obtained the Kid’s trust, he’ll try for friendship. He can’t pay him for his trust and friendship, of course; that would corrupt the truthfulness of the subject’s narrative. But when the Professor learns what the fellow needs — other than a safe, more or less permanent home and social respectability, both of which the Kid will probably never be allowed to possess again, if he even had them in the first place — he can offer him certain types of small help. Occasional transportation, the odd household item that the Professor and his wife would otherwise put into a yard sale, and possibly, if he needs a job, help finding one.

This could turn into a long-term project and could eventually produce important data and proposals for dealing with both sexual offenders and the problem of homelessness here and elsewhere. For the Professor, the stakes, like the opportunities, are high. He has tenure but wouldn’t mind acquiring a Distinguished University Professorship. Or an offer from a Washington think tank.

Can I give you a hand with that?

The Kid turns and peers up at the huge man blocking the late- afternoon sun. Yeah. Stop the fucking wind. You’re big enough.

The Professor chuckles. He’s used to chuckling; it’s his default form of laughter. He believes that overt, open-mouthed laughter makes him look too much like a jolly fat man; thus he tends not to laugh at all and rarely even smiles. If he must show pleasure or amusement or delight, he’d rather be seen as a chuckler, another stereotype, perhaps, but a slightly more serious one than that of the jolly fat man. He eases himself down to the ground and takes a position next to the Kid that effectively blocks the wind. The Kid tries again to light his stove and this time succeeds. The two sit there and watch the flame flare yellow and settle quickly back into a steadily purring blue blur.

Thanks.

You’re welcome.

For several minutes they are silent until the Kid stands and visits his tent and returns with the carton of eggs, a gallon jug of water, and a blackened saucepan. He pours three inches of water into the pan and sets it on the stove and sits back down on the ground beside the Professor.

Fresh eggs, man. Organic.

Pretty thin pickings, I’d say. For a growing boy.

Yeah? You into hitting on me or something? You some kinda faggot?

The Professor chuckles. Not in a million years, Kid.

What’s with them old-timey overalls, then? They look pretty faggoty to me, if you wanna know the truth. Especially on a guy built like you.

I just spent the day pretending I’m a carpenter building a house. It’s a volunteer project, Habitat for Humanity.

What’s that?

We build houses for poor people. Remember Jimmy Carter?

Yeah. Sort of. He was like the president way back.

Correct. The thirty-ninth president of the United States, and afterward he did volunteer work for Habitat for Humanity. Among other good things.

I s’pose he wore old-timey overalls too? And hippie sandals.

Not while he was president.

That’s good.

So how do you like it here at Benbow’s? Better than under the Causeway?

The water in the saucepan has come to a boil. With a spoon the Kid carefully places two eggs into the pan. He seems to consider the Professor’s question for a moment. Finally he points to his electronic ankle bracelet and says, I can’t stay here, except for a coupla days at most.

You can’t? Why not? Benbow’s is surely more than twenty-five hundred feet from a school or playground.

Yeah. But I don’t think Benbow’s is what it seems.

What is it, then? If it’s not what it seems.

I dunno. It’s sort of like a movie set maybe. That dude Trinidad Bob says among other things they shoot lots of commercials here but my parole officer says they’re only pretending like it’s some kind of funky island beach club with old guys hanging out making like they’re fucked-up Vietnam vets or something. They’re like wearing Vietnam vet costumes, she says. For TV and fashion magazines an’ shit. Mostly models in bathing suits and underwear and other filmy items. A lot of the models are under eighteen. At least that’s what my parole officer told me. I hadda let her know where I was living after I left the Causeway, and she checked in with Benbow, who ended up telling her they had a shoot scheduled this week for Gap Kids or something and there’s gonna be lots of little kids running around posing for the cameras in bathing suits and underwear. Besides, Benbow’s sort of paranoid about having me camped out here in the first place. Me and people like Paco, we attract attention from cops an’ shit. There’s probably a certain amount of illicit substances being circulated, if you know what I mean. Due to the fashion industry being here so much. And who knows what the fuck they really photograph and film out here? Other than Gap and magazine fashion ads.

Who’s Paco?

A biker dude from under the Causeway. Friend of mine. He came out here when I did.

We just met. I think he suspects I’m an undercover cop.

Paco’s like a part-time mechanic at a biker garage up in North Calusa. He’s got a job at least. Unlike me. But Benbow’s not cool with him being a permanent resident. He told me he’s gonna move back under the Causeway tomorrow. I guess I will too.

But why?

No place else to go, man. Same as with Paco. Same as with everybody who was living there. They’re all gonna come drifting back to the Causeway eventually. Too bad. I kinda like the view here. The sewer factory stinks when the wind’s offshore, but that’s only about half the time. Plus I was hoping maybe I could get Benbow to hire me to help smoke the fish when it comes in and sell it to people or tend bar or something. Or just keep the place cleaned or painting it. I’m good at that. But he doesn’t want it cleaned or painted. They need it looking fucked-up and funky. For the cameras. I guess it turns people on. The desert island fantasy.

I rather doubt he’d hire you to help sell the smoked fish. But maybe he could use you to tend bar.

All he needs for that is the other dude, Trinidad Bob. Trinidad Bob’s part of the act. Like he’s a prop. Even the old dog out there is a prop. And the parrot. You see the parrot in the cage by the bar?

I did.

The whole fucking island’s like a movie set. Probably the whole city of Calusa is. Maybe we’re all only props, like Trinidad Bob and that old broken-down dog and the parrot. You kinda look like a prop, y’ know. Like one of those TV wrestlers from WWF. You could be Professor Humungous Haystack.

Very funny. But won’t the police just come back to the Causeway and throw you out again?

Yeah. Prob’ly.

Where will you go then?

I’m starting to think three hots and a cot.

What do you mean?

Jail, man. Get myself busted for shoplifting a six-pack from a 7-Eleven.

You can’t mean that!

No money, no job, no legal squat. You got any better ideas, Humungous?

The Kid reminds the Professor of Huckleberry Finn somehow. Here he is now, long after he lit out for the Territory, grown older and as deep into the Territory as you can go, camped out alone where the continent and all the rivers meet the sea and there’s no farther place he can run to. The Professor wants to know what happened to that ignorant, abused, honest American boy between the end of the book and now. After he ran from Aunt Sally and her “sivilizin’,” how did he come years later to having “no money, no job, no legal squat”? In twenty-first-century America.