Jami Attenberg - Saint Mazie

Mazie’s Diary, August 3, 1931

This morning, at the table, I’m eating, she’s pushing the eggs around with the fork, and I can hear the fork scraping against the plate, that tinny sound in my ear.

I said: What?

She said: Nothing.

I said: Say it.

She said: The smell.

I said: I don’t smell a goddamn thing.

Mazie’s Diary, September 11, 1931

There’s an artist named Ray who’s been trading me sketches for change for weeks now. All he does is draw the Brooklyn Bridge, but I don’t say a peep. They’re beautiful anyway. He tells me he’s selling me the Brooklyn Bridge and we both have a laugh. I put one of them up in the cage, next to all the postcards.

Last night I saw him in an alley. I’d thought he was just broke, not on the streets. He told me his lady had left him and time had run out on his rent. A friend came over and gave him a few bills for what he had left, some books, some art. The rest he’d sold a long time ago, or it was garbage anyway. He blamed himself for everything.

He said: I don’t need to be down on my luck. I choose to be here. I’ve lost the fight. I’m no good at the other thing.

I said: What other thing?

He said: You know, life.

He’s handsome, this Ray. He’s long-legged, and his suit fits him well. He has a stylish bowler he wears and his blond curls flop around his ears. His face is long and drawn but a week or two of good eating and he’d be gorgeous again.

He pulled out his notebook and offered to trade another drawing for some change.

I told him he didn’t need to sell his work to me any longer, that I’d give him change no matter what.

I said: I see how thirsty you are.

He said: I’m no beggar. I’m an artist.

He took his hat off and held it to his heart and focused all his attention upon me where I stood and I nearly desired him.

And then he said: But I am indeed thirsty.

So I took the drawing and he took the change and I put it where I’ve put all the rest of them. In the pages of this diary.

Pete Sorensen

I had all the Brooklyn Bridge sketches individually framed. There’s twenty-two in all. I couldn’t help myself. I hung them in my shop and I get so many compliments on them. A wall of nearly identical Brooklyn Bridges, signed by one Ray Frieburg. I looked him up. He was nobody special.

Mazie’s Diary, November 1, 1931

Thirty-four. I took myself shopping on Division Street. I bought dresses, three of them, one violet and two blue ones, all in deep jewel tones, all of them silk. I looked real sharp in all of them. Afterward I walked along the Bowery and felt bad, indulgent and spoiled, because so many people are suffering on the streets. But then I felt fine when I got back to work because I need to feel pretty, even if no one can see what I’m wearing in that cage all day. I need it. Me. Mine.

I showed Rosie the dresses when I got home tonight and she touched the fabric, looked closely at the seams, held the violet one up against her in the mirror. She declared them immaculate and stylish and the best quality. She grew sad for a moment, and said she wished she could fit in a dress with such a small waist.

She’s become a big woman, it’s true. In particular her arms are enormous, like an ape’s arms. She’s on that downward slope toward being an old woman. Her hair is nearly all gray, battle lines drawn around her lips. Just last week I suggested ever so gently she dye her hair.

She said: For who?

And I said: For you.

Mazie’s Diary, February 6, 1932

William passed. A pal of his told me, this fella Gerard who was looking for money to crash in a flophouse tonight. Hit up old Mazie at the cage, that’s what they all do. I didn’t know his face at first. The street’s aged him. He was a pink-cheeked cherub and now he’s got bags under his eyes and chunks of hair gone and there’s no color left in his face.

I said: Do I know you?

He said: Sure you do.

I said: From where?

He said: I met you with William, that day you let us all in the theater. It was a long time ago, but not too long.

I said: Two years ago nearly, I think.

He said: A lot’s changed.

I said: You were just a kid then. Look at you now.

He said: The cold wind changes a man.

I felt bad. What does he need me insulting his looks for?

I said: You look fine, just fine.

He said: I’ll take your word for it. I haven’t looked in a mirror in a long time.

I said: Hey, where’s that buddy William of yours?

He didn’t say anything, just pointed to the sky. I looked up, not understanding right away.

I said: Oh.

He said: Yes.

It was months ago, and I didn’t even know it.

Mazie’s Diary, February 27, 1932

Called four ambulances this month and checked six fellas into flophouses. Feel like I’m just getting started here, like I could do this forever. Just keep helping them. Because someone’s always going to need help.

Mazie’s Diary, May 8, 1932

I looked up just before close yesterday and there was the Captain. Ben, now. I’m going to call him Ben. He hasn’t been a captain in a long time. He’s not the Captain I used to know either.

It was raining, and we ducked into a diner and sat at the counter. I’d promised Rosie I’d be home for dinner for once, and I felt anxious about that, but on the other hand I knew we needed to talk. About what I didn’t know exactly. Only that there were things left to be said.

We both ordered coffee, and I realized it would be the first time the two of us were together without any booze in us. And the lights in the diner were bright. It was just the two of us. We could only be ourselves.

He showed me pictures of his son, his namesake. He was a cute kid, bright eyes, his hair slicked down and parted to the side, a tiny suit coat. A bow tie. I nearly choked up but I didn’t and I’m goddamn proud of myself.

I asked him what his boy was like and he shifted around on his stool. He didn’t seem too happy talking about it.

He said: He’s angry already and he’s not old enough to be angry at the world yet. And we’ve got a fine life there. Anything going on that might tick him off, he doesn’t know about it.

I said: Kids are smart. He looks pretty smart in that picture.

He said: He’s a good kid. I’m not complaining about him. I feel bad. Ah, I don’t know.

I said: You could change your ways. You can be whatever kind of person you like.

He said: I’ve been this way so long I don’t know how else to be.

I said: All you have to do is choose it. It’s up to you.

He said: You sound like my wife.

I said: The last thing I want to sound like is your wife.

We both waited to laugh but then we did and everything melted between us. I let him hold my hand for a while though I knew I wouldn’t go back to his hotel with him. But I felt like I could talk to him, more than I can ever talk to that priest I visit. Ben’s not anonymous exactly, but it feels safe to tell him everything. He’s a real friend now, and he doesn’t want anything from me except maybe to have someone to talk to. And I found myself telling him things I hadn’t even realized until the moment it came out of my mouth.

I told him about walking the streets at night, helping out the fellas. He told me it worried him, me walking alone out there. I told him I’d been getting to know them all, getting to know their true stories. I didn’t think a one of them would hurt me. They were just alone out there, and I understood that. And then this one thing occurred to me.

I said: I’ll tell you the real truth of why I do it, or part of it anyway. There ain’t nothing wrong with being alone, which is what I am, or what I have been. It’s when it turns to loneliness, when you get to feeling blue about it all, that you’re in trouble. There’s the problem, loneliness. And now I’m never really alone anymore, day or night. Even if I walk the streets by myself, I’m always surrounded by people. It’s like being in the cage, only inside out.