Michael Thomas - Man Gone Down

“Wanna fight?”

I give him a dark, sideways look then turn to watch the people continue to mount the stair. I study each one, trying to pick out a specific trait to help me remember them, because no one seems to be coming back down.

Gavin watches me watch the climbers. He shoots a thumb at their path. “What, am I causing a scene? Are you worried about them? Look, if it pleases you and them, I’m willing to be Billy Conn to your Joe Louis. You can knock me the fuck out — right here. Maybe we should go over to the Garden. Then they would love us, both.”

“Conn and Louis became friends.”

He slips his head and raises an eyebrow as if I’d jabbed at him.

“Schmeling, too — he was never a Nazi.”

He shrugs his shoulders, mumbles, “Well, at least I got something.”

I nod vaguely.

“So what’s that place you’re staying at?”

“A friend’s.”

“Nice digs. What kind of criminal is he?”

“He’s a lawyer — for bankers.”

He goes for another cigarette, turns back to the street. “You know, if I’d turned out like my old man wanted, I would’ve been an I-banker — after winning Olympic gold. Maybe I’d have been out there, been able to pin you down, give those guys the heads-up about poet-hustlers on the links. He elbows in my direction. “Win anything?”

“Not enough.”

He sighs, studies my face again — openly — and shakes his head. “Sorry.”

I straighten up, rub my face. “I should’ve come to see you. I’ve just been — fuck — how are you?”

“Me — oh please — detox is detox. You know the drill, anesthetization and humiliation. It’s just sanctioned.” He offers me another smoke. I shake my head and then have to hold my breath so I don’t puke bile. Gavin leans down next to me, still offering the pack.

“Dude?”

“I’m a black hole.”

He straightens. “Pardon?” He shakes his head, snorts, and pushes the cigarettes at me. He snorts again. I look up at him, but he’s looking down at the sidewalk, grinning. He turns to me, widens his grin, buckles his knees, and winces with silent internal laughter. He shoots his head out toward the street, as if asking me to look. I do. Two young women make their way toward us and stop ten steps below. Gavin puts a cigarette in his mouth, thumbs at me, and mumbles to them, “Don’t sit too close ladies, lest ye be sucked in.” I take the pack from him, and he continues mumbling, a little louder, to everyone now, “Pretty sloppy, using an astrophysical metaphor to talk about being broke.” He turns to me and barks, “Hey, Socrates, ever consider the B-side — you know, death star, dead star. What about calling yourself Super Nova?”

The women are still standing. They both look up at Gavin and smile. One is brown skinned with a shaved head. The other is olive toned — lighter perhaps — with blonde hair, dark shades. She’s holding a shopping bag. The brown one bends, picks through it, and takes out a small package. She points up at the revolving doors. The olive one nods and sits. Gavin sits next to me.

“A hundred bucks one of them bums a smoke.”

I light my cigarette, inhale, swoon, and almost pitch forward down the stairs. I shoot my cuffs instead, and that seems to clear my head and settle my insides. The second drag feels good.

“You in?”

“Whatever.”

The brown woman starts up the stairs. She’s wearing an indigo sarong and a charcoal tank. Her arms are well muscled, and she moves athletically. She makes sure our eyes meet and smiles broadly. She’s big eyed, gap toothed. We both nod. She nods back and passes. We look down to her friend. She’s lifted her glasses onto her head. Her bright green eyes, even from here, are striking.

“Shit, captain, some things never change.” I’m not sure what he’s referring to, but I let it go and exhale smoke with a sigh. He elbows me. “Come on, man. You’re in your prime. I mean, you look a little sleepy, a bit thin, perhaps even emotionally devastated, but other than that, yer aces, kid — a fine poet-warrior like you. Go forth,” he waves out to the avenue. “Do your thing.”

When I don’t respond, he waves a few more times and gives up. Then he starts nodding.

“So I started writing my poetics last night, but it turned into a screed against consumerism, then an autobiography. Ugh — I detest memoir.”

I shift. The brown girl passes, does a half turn, smiles, turns back, reaches her friend. She sits, and then they both turn and smile. The olive one reaches into the bag and pulls out drinks and sandwiches.

Gavin covers his mouth with his fist and coughs. “She looks like your ex.”

I perk up, look around, trying to find her. “Who?”

“Sally.”

“No, I know that,” still searching for her. He points down the stairs.

“The bald one. Skirty.”

I sag again. “I don’t see it.”

Gavin waves slowly. “It’s her nose, but also the way she moves. I remember. She moved freely, she had a bounce when she didn’t think anyone was watching.”

I put my head in my hands. “Unless she was walking with me.”

“Fuck,” he hisses to himself. “What do you want?” He squints, looks away to the south, shakes his head, and takes a long pull from his coffee. He turns back, softens his face, and looks for the right words somewhere above my head. “You were a poor young poet and she was a poor shy girl. It was doomed.” He points down at the women. “You know, don’t get mad, but at first, I thought you were really stretching that Irish thing to get in her pants.” He starts to chuckle to himself. “But then I realized that wasn’t it. You wanna know why?” He seems too pleased with himself to stop.

“Why?” I grunt.

“Well, the last thing that bonnie lass wanted was some broke Irish poet. So, true or not, it was such an ill-conceived and misguided plan or confession or sharing that I found it moving.” He snorts and spills some coffee. The women look back to see if he’s laughing at them. The brown one raises an eyebrow at him and turns away.

He gestures down at her with his cup. “Wee Sally has become emboldened over time.” He checks my face and my posture, then leans my way and whispers, “Look, if you had some dough, would you be like this?”

“Like what?”

“Like what — slumped on the stairs on a beautiful afternoon with nothing but apocalyptic visions in your head. Give them up.” He sighs heavily as though conceding. “We’re a couple of horsemen light now anyway.”

“Sorry.”

He shakes his head, goes to pat my leg, but stops.

“No, I’m sorry about teasing. I shouldn’t. You’ve got pressures I don’t even know about.”

“It’s all right.” I take a last drag, but it’s gone out, and all of a sudden I don’t have any wind.

“No. No. It isn’t. It’s just that I’m coming out of a strange place.”

I nod, though not convincingly.

“Hey, you got time for a story?”

I look across to the Garden. He looks, too. It’s 4:50. I wonder if Gavin will want to walk me to the station to catch the nonexistent bus. I can’t picture myself running or even walking fast for that matter — so ten minutes to Port Authority from here.

“Yeah.”

“Okay, but first, I have a confession. That night I called — I don’t know how I got that number, probably from your wife, which is, now that I think about it, the reason she sounded worried when I called again. I did want to wish you happy birthday, but I also wanted to ask you if I was going crazy.”

He checks to see if I’m listening, seems satisfied, and continues.

“So there was Ricky and there was Mindy. Ricky was my roommate. The first morning I woke up to him standing in the middle of the room, eating a banana. They had me on a frightful amount of Librium, so I questioned what I was seeing: He finishes it, goes to his drawer, gets out an aerosol can of Raid, holds the peel out, sprays it, then puts them both away in the drawer.