Michael Thomas - Man Gone Down

“Yes.”

He leaned onto the desktop, brought his head down low but still, somehow, held it erect. “Is that ship right now?” He waited for a moment, then began shaking his head. He pushed back from the desk. “I don’t mind a poet, man — I don’t mind a poet at all. We need them. But I’ll have every woolly-headed artist swinging from light poles by morning, just like those damned tennis shoes the kids like to throw up there, if it means getting something done in this world.” He folded his fingers behind his head and reclined.

“That’s a joke, son.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Based on a literary reference.”

“I know, sir.”

“It was ironic.”

“Yes, sir.”

“It was funny.”

“Yes, sir.”

“We demagogues can be subversive, too. Hoo!” He howled with laughter. Pointed, “Gotcha!” He leaned forward again. “You know they took all the fun out of your generation. You watched too much of that damn protest footage in social studies. Everyone’s all steely and severe. You know,” he said thumbing in the direction of the photograph. “Dr. King had a great sense of humor.”

“No, sir, I didn’t.”

He pushed back, took a big book from the shelf and held it out for me. “Augustine. Ever read it?”

I scanned the cover, City of God, and was stunned somewhat stupid by the selection.

“No, sir.”

“This is for you— to borrow. When you’re done, come back and see me. We have much to talk about.”

And we did have much to talk about, or, rather, he had much to say to me. He was good to me. He cut a trail through the administrative bush, right into the graduate program without a BA. Nobody fucked with Pincus. Over the years he’d maintained his authority and kept the respect of his peers by not getting too big — staying out of the popular discourse and throwing in only with clergy and scholars. Privately swearing that he’d never leave the city school for the “private and elite spas.” And having me tacitly swear it, too. It was obvious to everyone that I was being groomed as his heir-apparent. I don’t know why it wasn’t obvious to him that I wasn’t the one. So it came as a shock to him when I started drifting away. First there were the grave looks of disappointment; then he turned cruel, calling my interests “archaic and therefore frivolous,” saying that “a man of my history, background, and talents should know better.”

When I get back to the garage, the attendant is waiting for me outside.

* * *

“The keys are in. You’re ready to go.”

I tip him five bucks, which gets a few more words out of him. “Have a good night. See you soon”—other pleasantries. I pretend to be bored by the car until I turn away from him. It’s a black Ferrari Modena — one of the things Marco had promised himself if he made good. Modena, where they’re made, where he comes from. “Enzo Ferrari was a genius,” he’d told me before with great national pride. And now, in the driver’s seat, looking at the testosterone-mad stallion on the steering wheel, I have to agree. Sitting in the leather-clad seat, I believe that I’m actually in the mind of a raging horse. Enzo, however, was careful to keep the division between man and brute clear. I’m in charge. All I have to do is whisper a command in the center of the animal mind. “Go!” I turn the key, and the attendant jumps. The engine’s sound isn’t equine, though; it growls, perhaps the sound a sleeping horse might make when it dreams of being a predator — some demon stud or perverse unicorn. Marco’s put only five hundred miles on it. I touch the gas lightly; the tachometer moves. I let it hover at 1,000 rpm and then release. I have to smile. I’m in a leather and steel chariot ready to be yanked by four hundred crazy horses. I drop the horse metaphor. I drop the clutch, shift into first, and then, gas, just a little, and let up on the clutch. Less and less clutch, more gas, and I’m rolling. Enzo Ferrari was indeed a genius. I turn onto the street and pull over to survey the controls. There aren’t many of them — sunroof, stereo. I fiddle with them — adjust the mirrors and seat. I load up the jukebox and put it on shuffle, but I wait to push play. Five thirty. I have two hours to get to Midtown. I check the mirrors again, push my ass into the seat, flatten my back. I push play. “Fellas, things done got too far gone. .” Yes, they have, Mr. Brown. Yes, they have. Mr. Brown calls again and gets the needed response. I put the car in gear and rumble into the traffic.

It’s easy to drive in New York. Unlike Boston’s winding livestock trails, the roads here are straight. “This is a man’s world . .” I ascend the bridge, always so lovely on a late summer day. The sun is strong. The big wheels seem to have found secret tracks on the blacktop in which to ride. I cross the river, staying with the flow of traffic, but it’s like I’m on my own personal rail, in second gear, with so much power in reserve.

New York City can be wonderful in August in the late afternoon because there’s no one here. I shouldn’t say no one; it’s left to the no ones who haven’t the means to escape the heat, stink, and grime. But just the same, there are fewer someones to rub your face in it. Things seem open. FDR is free on the northbound side. It’s rare to find a speed trap in the city, so I speed, not excessively — the car draws enough attention — but just enough to find out what Enzo’s folks have done. With the throttle only a quarter down I hit seventy in third gear. And by the time I pass the Thirty-fourth street exit, I realize I should ease off and just cruise.

I circle the city, staying away from the claustrophobia-inducing towers, remembering why, even when living in Manhattan, I stayed away from Midtown and stuck to the edges of the island. I take the river drive across Harlem and then wind my way to Broadway — the great black way up here. I had fantasies about relocating in Harlem, of finding some distressed brownstone or warehouse, buying it on the cheap from the city and then building a home for us. Claire had surprised me by loving the idea, scrutinizing every listing and dragging us uptown every Sunday for what seemed the better part of a year. We’d missed it, of course, another land grab, the day when a dollar down could reserve your empire.

I cruise back east on 125th. I turn off the AC and open the windows and sunroof. There’s something splendid about driving a hundred-and-fifty-thousand-dollar car and not having a pot to piss in. Guthrie comes on. “The winter wind is blowing strong, my hands ain’t got no gloves . .” There’s something splendid about being on the lam, in disguise. “Don’t you remember me, babe, I remember you quite well . .” I stop at the light on the corner of Fifth and sing along. “High sheriff on my trail, boys, high sheriff on my trail. .” I’ve always liked the sound of my voice next to Woody’s. Mine is hoarse, heavier. I switch to the harmony. “All because I’m falling for a curly-headed dark-eyed gal.” The light turns, but now people begin to cross Fifth. Some turn to look at the low-riding coupe, but more turn for my duet. Woody probably never drove a fine Italian sports car or wore hand-tailored English suits. I wonder if anyone crossing thinks these things are mine.

There’s a break in the line of walkers, and I go. “Who’s gonna stroke your coal-black hair and sandy-colored skin?” I used to sing this song in downtown bars and coffee houses. People were always polite, but no one ever really seemed to like it. “Who’s gonna kiss your red ruby lips when I’m out in the wind?” Perhaps my performance was poor — I don’t think so. Just the same, no one seemed to be able to hear the plea: “When I’m out in the wind, babe . .” Perhaps they couldn’t make the jump, couldn’t recognize the girl or empathize with his longing for her. Maybe the face in the song didn’t match the faces they knew, or his fate seemed too strange next to their own. Claire hadn’t liked it but was polite. Perhaps she hadn’t wanted to be that girl — heartbreaker of a lawless man. Claire is good: good wife, good mother, good daughter. She weeps instead of rages. She smiles and makes others feel good — the good teeth, good skin, the good word: They are nearly cold — perfect — but softened by the small hint of sorrow.