Michael Thomas - Man Gone Down

“You better get going, man.”

Bing Bing tightens the straps on my bag. I shoulder it and start walking. Bing Bing gives me a light slap on the back. KC stays by the window.

“You gotta number man? You in the book?”

“Yeah, sure.” I walk out, stop and turn at the elevator. I knock the button with my knife handle. The light goes on. KC calls from inside.

“Like I said, I get jobs of my own. I call you next one na.”

“Thanks, KC.”

He finally moves out of my view so he doesn’t have to watch me wait.

Johnny is outside waiting for me with his hands in his pockets. He looks like a lost kid. He slouches when he sees me, drops his head, and then rolls his eyes up to look at me.

“Qué pasa, professor?”

“What’s up, Johnny?”

He tries to smile but stops at kind of a half-grimace. He takes his hands out of his pockets, then stuffs them back.

“Nothing, man, nothing. It’s cool. Here.” He pulls out a billfold.

“What’s this?”

“Tuesday, yesterday, and today. I owe you. Take it.” I open my hand and he places the bills in them. I put them in my pocket without looking. “I paid you for a full day today.” He looks down again. “I paid you like a lead guy. I wasn’t trying to be a dick. I was just trying to get you back into it, you know.”

“Thanks, man.”

“It’s cool.”

“Where’s your friend?”

He snaps up, spitting. “That fucker ain’t my friend.” He checks himself. “Chris took him to St. Vincent’s.” He kicks at the curb. “You gotta watch out. He’s the type that’ll sue you.” He looks at me, perhaps waiting for me to acknowledge his warning, or say something he can understand — an apology, but when I look past him at the people entering and leaving the jeans store, I know that I don’t need to apologize for anything. And I feel a surge of adrenaline, greater than when Feeney’s fist grazed my face — so large that I feel if Nancyboy looks at me with the slightest bit of malice, I’ll backhand him into the street.

He flares his nostrils.

“I gotta go, man.” He points at my hand. “Nice hook.”

He heads north and I take out the money — seven-fifty. I haven’t had this much cash on me in years — maybe ever. My first feeling is that I’m rich. I start for the jeans store to get Claire a pair of pants.

The store isn’t as posh as I thought it would be — not posh at all, actually. The shelves are painted wood, the jeans are just — jeans. There are tributes to America, splashes of red, white, and blue paint, and actual flags, too, both painted and cloth on the wall, hanging from the ceiling. There’s dust, on the wide-plank floor, seemingly in the air. I don’t seem out of place here. A slim, pale-faced brunette is leaning against the shelves, looking lost, but not in thought. Her face is blank until she sees me, then she crosses her arms behind her, and smiles. She put on a lot of lipstick today along with low-cut jeans and a short, tight pink T-shirt that’s cut an inch above her navel. Her white skin looks a bit goosey.

“Hi, sir, can I help you?”

“I’d like to buy some pants — jeans.”

She tries to keep her smiley-faced sexy innocence going.

“Well, this is the place.”

“Perhaps a sweater as well.”

“We’ve got some great ones.” She puts her palms on her thighs and bends as though she’s about to address a child. “Would you like to see some things?”

“I’d love to.”

“Great, follow me.”

She leads me toward the back of the store, to the great racks of jeans — floor to ceiling — checking a couple of times to make sure I’m still with her.

“This is a gift for. .”

“My wife. My wife.”

“Great. Do you know her size?”

“Four.”

We stop in the back corner. There are two blown-up photographs: one is of Dylan and the other Jim Morrison. Both are famous shots: Dylan with his Wayfarers and Minnesota afro, looking like he’s about to let somebody know just how stupid they really are. The Lizard King arms spread, shirtless, leather pants, like he’s auditioning at a cattle call for a bacchanal.

“We have five different styles.”

“I’m sorry?”

“What cut do you think she’d like?” She steps back and frames her jeans with her hands. “These are the Urban Cut.”

“I don’t think so.”

“Hmm.” She starts into one of the piles on a shelf. “Classic?”

“Classic?”

She pulls a pair out and models them on an imaginary figure between us. “These are the Classic Cuts. A lot of people like these because they’re simple.”

“Perhaps too simple.”

She folds them quickly, in a way I’ve never been able to master, and slips them back in the pile. “She’ll love these.” She reaches up to a higher shelf, pulling her shirt up her ribcage. She has a large birthmark on her spine. She finally gets the pants, turns and unfolds them simultaneously.

“Free and Easy.”

“That’s great.”

“Aren’t they?”

“Yes.”

“So what else can I help you with?”

“I’ll take two.”

“Two pairs. Someone’s lucky.”

“Absolutely.”

“Can I find anything else for you today?”

“No, thank you. That will do.”

The two pairs cost $150. I start north with my tool and shopping bag feeling about as good as I can remember feeling in a while. The sun seems to be gathering strength for one last push against the chill. And people of all types line the narrow streets of SoHo — some with tool bags, some with shopping bags, but none with both. Punching Feeney was the best thing I’ve done for myself in a while. I appreciate the transforming powers of violence. Awake. The air has a new snap to it. The light is sharper, as though some hand has made a small adjustment on my collective focus.

I get a triple espresso from the shop I’ve been avoiding. It’s really not that expensive, after all. The pimply boy at the counter was eager to make it — perhaps even charged me too little, and seemed truly thankful when I dropped a dollar in the tip jar. Outside. North. Shopping bag, tool bag, no lavender spray but tingling knuckles, the notion that I can lick anyone and the anticipation of a solid caffeine high in the afternoon. The streets are crowded, but no one seems particularly busy or in a hurry. They stroll, chat, browse in the windows of the little shops — small inventories, bright paint, and thin women of varying ages and shades. I wonder if the mad Scot still has his little soccer shop up on Eleventh. I make for it, cutting east down Houston toward Second Avenue. This isn’t the street I ran down the other night. That road is gone. Why bother? Whatever it has to offer has no place here. Fuck it, I say at the bottom of Second. I’ll get my boy a shirt if I want to. I’ll get a shirt for both my boys. Ronaldo! Jogo Bonito! X wouldn’t want one, though. I’ll get him a big T. rex model, or one of those fancy picture books — something like that. And my girl, what? I’m sure I’ll know it when I see it. It will speak.

A couple of blocks south of the soccer store I see a narrow shop with a big window, white wainscoting and a few tables, a young woman with a ponytail holding a tray with a teapot. I know I’ve been in that space before when it was something else. I cross the street, cutting through the lines of stopped cars, and stop at the door to read the menu. I can’t really focus on anything — the espresso’s kicking in. The ponytail girl turns. Her face is striking: Eurasian, I think is the term that’s supposed to describe her. I hesitate at the door. She pushes it open, one handed, and holds it ajar for me.

“Come in.” Her voice is squeaky but not unpleasant. She seems too innocent to be working in the New York City service industry. She couldn’t have been here long. She certainly didn’t grow up here.