Joseph McElroy - Women and Men

Probable that people in the car would look after it and/or the motorman could take it to the Lost and Found at the end of the line. But would they do that with the Sony portable color TV in the carton there on the platform, possession of the beautiful blonde woman with the busted nose at that taking it home probably to her family? Probably it would not wind up in Lost and Found — any more than woman in white robe on her hands and knees by the exit stairs who stopped singing a religious song and started growling real loud and stopped. Probable is not definite, not known for sure, not fact; not a message to build on: though have now found out that it is possible to build even when in motion.

Georgie did not know he was being looked at by one of the freaks from his block far away in Brooklyn. All freaks to him. Often back in neighborhood he would not know he was being looked at, would look right through you, but no, not through, but, for a fact, just around you. On one side of bike now half or three-quarters into car was Puerto Rican or Cuban woman who was having a baby soon. Never saw Georgie away from the block before, someplace else in the city. Woman having the baby couldn’t move, and she was leaning on someone but someone invisible, the light overhead came down the pole and made her eyelids dark lamps for a fact. She didn’t have a seat to sit down. She could use a vacation out where it’s warm and quiet — where there’s space to turn around — turn around three times without pickpockets making friends before you know it and if she’s your sister you protect her if you have to against someone wants to make trouble for her, a sister it would be good to have sitting in the kitchen taking a breather, brushing her teeth in the bathroom in the morning with the radio going, a sister a little older, a little younger, that could be talked to, and let the mother go her own way for a while, a sister who would believe when told retard-brother learned all alone on broken bike in trashed lot months and months ago until they took lot away. A white messenger came by like a slow motor, had one smaller arm and a look in both eyes.

The next car not so crowded, there’s light between the people. It didn’t have all its doors functioning, either. Just the left half of the door or the right half would open; it’s the circuits unloading. Georgie a prick but no asshole; keeps mouth shut. Bike was being retracted from crowded car. But sometimes Georgie says, You retard, you retarded asshole, you jerk; you got yourself a job! But he didn’t see all the other messengers. Has big hands and a scar on jaw.

b. Some big manila envelopes heavy; some light. Some too big to hand-hold. Some stiff. Some bend. Some with art work inside; some with different important papers and cardboard moving around inside. Sometimes a long or small box to carry from one office to another.

Kid with fast hands standing beside the newspaper and sex-trash stand upstairs by turnstiles. Fast mouth: dumb mothe’-fuckin’ retard; asshole messenger; ugliest nigger messenger ever seen: they give you money to carry around? Hey boy you hear me?

Fast hands on a big manila envelope that’s already hard to hand-hold tight up under the arm. Tight’s better than fast — photographs and big ones inside envelope. Kid with fast hands fast mouth alongside approaching the stairway from turnstile level, he’s looking to take the big envelope for himself, but he don’t know lanes and he is not looking ahead and he’s in a lane just like everybody else in the city: ahead of him in his lane a transit cop’s wearing a stack of ribbons, and a collision is impending: cop pushes fast kid right down on his back and he don’t bounce up or roll over. He stays there, and lanes are where it’s at. Some days lanes blocked, some days lanes clear with elevator opening before the buzzer even gets pressed, and upstairs it’s two ladies with all their hair cut off waiting for delivery. Very important to them, like a telegram, and they take from the messenger even in motion, they’re big builders and they build on what they already got. The younger one goes and lies on her back on a blue mat with her legs and feet back over her head, toes touching the floor behind her head. ‘‘Brother, what would you like to have most in all the world?" the older one asked, and what almost comes out is Why? but instead only W-w-w-w-w-wah — but a man with no clothes on and a scar right up his front came out of the hall with a glass of orange juice and said, "Leave that kid alone, Grace, you can’t convert everyone who comes in off the street." But she got her answer from messenger with a lot of b, and it was a bicycle, a bicycle was the answer to her question. "Abundance," she said, putting a hand on messenger’s wrist; "I know where one is," she said. The younger one on the floor said, "Do you get the minimum wage? Do you ever see any women messengers?" But the older one is ripping open the envelope and whipping out a poster with a picture of a naked woman with her legs spread open but it looks like outer space. "You ought to organize," the younger woman said. Both wearing their gray sweat pants. The older woman says, "Cliff, you’re going to turn orange at that rate"; then she turns and says, "When you stammer like that, that’s abundance speaking; it’s many voices in you." "Right," says the younger woman, her name is Maureen, and Grace, the older, says, "You’re an angel, Jimmy," but she didn’t know the messenger’s name, did she? — she definitely didn’t. "He’s what?" asks the guy with the orange juice. The young one is right — there are no woman messengers. Cliff says, "They know things we don’t know."

c. She didn’t sign for it because he forgot to tell her to. She was on the phone smiling and she was talking to someone called Amy but about someone else, a man. She had big and little pictures all over, photos and paintings and drawings like that looked like chalk. Some of Indians, one of an Indian kid with feathers watching a rocket take off like a white bullet, but it didn’t look like a rocket. And a photo of a bicycle racer with giant legs.

She got mad at the Amy she was talking to: she said she "loved him," whoever he was — and she was very definite and she looked around the room and then said thanks to Amy for giving her the name of the messenger service and picked up the Psychic Consultation card and stared at him and smiled and shook her head while the Amy at the other end of the line was still talking pretty fast — that was definite.

Back at the office his mother was phoning just as he returned, he could almost hear her voice but more than her voice in the air; and Goodie and Baddie went into the storefront window to fight each other because the old lady with the white hair and the dark mole on her cheek had come by, and Mr. Turnstein who had almost no jaw-chin but giant hair growth like extra head said he was sorry the mother-on-the-phone’s son had these problems, but his work was O.K. But he agreed there were sometimes dangers on city streets, traffic, muggers, and such, especially in light of the mental level— he caught sight of him coming in the door and didn’t finish: but obviously he had been talking to the mother and it was Jimmy they were discussing, and all he could think to do was attract Turnstein’s attention and wave at him very hard (like I can’t talk to her), until Senora Wing sitting at the table with the magic lamp but not giving any psychic consultation said What’s the matter, did he get back from a job?

He needed another in a hurry, to get out of there, and Turnstein, who was still on the phone but then didn’t know Jimmy knew it was his mother again telling everyone he was not able to work, just pointed to the counter where the order was written out with the going from and the going to, and he took it and went out again and didn’t get his carfare but had tokens, he had tokens. But Senora Wing was on the sidewalk in her shawl and her giant fat arms yelling that he didn’t know how to get there. He turned and staggered and said sure he knew and Senora went back in the storefront while Goodie and Baddie who you couldn’t tell if they were male or female and Senora Wing had said they were once Siamese twins but were separated, went on like crazy in the window punching and pummeling and the old lady laughed but not the old skinny guy she was with and she was saying, Why it’s just like Baddie and What’s-his-name, Baddie and what’s-his-name.