Andrea Dworkin - Mercy

fast black boys who get separated from the pack; and you hear

the fuck, shit, asshole, o f the basketball players as a counterpoint to the solitary fuck, shit, asshole, o f the lone cops as they emerge from their cars, they put down their heavy legs and

their heavy feet in their bad old shoes, all worn, chewed

leather, and they pull themselves out o f their old cars, and

they’re tired men, overweight, there ain’t many young ones at

all, and there’s a peculiar sadness to them, the fascists are

melancholy in Gotham, they say fuck, shit, asshole, like it’s

soliloquies, like it’s prayers, like it’s amen, like it’s exegesis on

existence, like it’s unanswered questions, urgent, eloquent,

articulated to God; lonely, tired old Nazis, more like Hamlet,

though, than like Lear, introspective from exhaustion, not

grand or arrogant or merciless in delusion; and the boys hurl

the ball like it’s bombs, like it’s rocks and stones, like it’s

bullets and they’re the machines o f delivery, the weapons o f

death, machine guns o f flesh, bang bang bang, each round so

fast, so hard, as the ball hits the ground and the boy moves

with it, a weapon with speed up its ass; and they’re a choir o f

fuck, shit, asshole, voices still on the far edge o f an adolescent

high, not the raspy, cigarette-ruined voices o f the lonely, sad

men; the boys run, the boys sing the three words they know, a

percussive lyric, they breathe deep, skin and viscera breathe,

everything inside and outside breathes, there’s a convulsion,

then another one, they exhale as if it’s some sublime soprano

aria at the Met, supreme art, simple, new each time, the air

comes out urgent and organized and with enough volume to

fill a concert hall, it’s exhilarating, a human voice, all the words

they don’t know; and the cops, old, young, it don’t matter,

barely breathe at all, they breathe so high up in the throat that

the air barely gets out, it’s thin and depressed and somber, it’s

old and it’s stale and it’s pale and it’s flat, there’s no words to it

and no music, it’s a thin, empty sound, a flat despair, Hamlet

so old and dead and tired he can’t even get up a stage whisper.

The cops look at the boys, each cop does, and there’s this

second when the cop wants to explode, he’d unleash a grenade

in his own hand if he had one, he’d take him self with it if it

meant offing them, fuck them black boys’ heads off, there’s

this tangible second, and then they turn away, each one,

young, old, tight, sagging, each one, every day, and they pull

themselves up, and they kick the rocks, the broken glass, the

gravel, and they got a hand folded into a fist, and they leave the

parking lot, they walk big, they walk heavy, they walk like

John Wayne, young John, old John, big John, they walk slow

and heavy and wide, deliberate, like they got six-shooters

riding on each hip; while the boys m ove fast, mad, mean,

speeding, cold fury in hot motion. Y ou want them on each

other; not on you. It ain’t honorable but it’s real. Y o u want

them caught up in the urban hate o f generations, in wild west

battles on city streets, you want them so manly against each

other they don’t have time for girlish trash like you, you want

them fighting each other cock to cock so it all gets used up on

each other. Y o u take the view that wom en are for recreation,

fun, when the battle’s over; and this battle has about another

hundred years to go. Y o u figure they can dig you up out o f the

ground when they’re ready. Y o u figure they probably will.

Y o u figure it don’t matter to them one w ay or the other. Y ou

figure it don’t matter to you either; ju st so it ain’t today, now,

tonight, tom orrow ; ju st so you ain’t conscious; just so you

ain’t alive the next time; just so you are good and dead; just so

you don’t know what it is and w h o ’s doing it. If yo u ’re buying

milk or bread or things you have to go past them, walk down

them streets, go in front o f them, the boys, the cops, and you

practice disappearing; you practice pulling the air over you

like a blanket; you practice being nothing and no one; you

practice not making a sound and barely breathing; you

practice making your eyes go blank and never looking at

anyone but seeing where they are, hearing a shadow move;

you practice being a ghost on cement; and you don’t let

nothing rattle or make noise, not the groceries, not your shoes

hitting the ground, not your arms, you don’t let them m ove or

rub, you don’t make no spontaneous gestures, you don’t even

raise your arm to scratch your nose, you keep your arms still

and you put the milk in the bag so it stays still and you go so far

as to make sure the bag ain’t a stupid bag, one o f them plastic

ones that makes sounds every time something touches it; you

have to get a quiet bag; if it’s a brown paper bag you have to

perfect the skill o f carrying it so nothing moves inside it and so

you don’t have to change arms or hands, acts which can catch

the eye o f someone, acts which can call attention to you, you

don’t shift the bag because your hand gets tired or your arm,

you just let it hurt because it hurts quiet, and if it’s a plastic bag

it’s got to be laminated good so it don’t make any rustling

noise or scratching sound, and you have to walk faster, silent,

fast, because plastic bags stand out more, sometimes they have

bright colors and the flash o f color going by can catch

someone’s attention, the bag’s real money, it costs a dime, it’s

a luxury item, you got change to spare, you’re a classy shopper

so who knows what else you got; and if it’s not colorful it’s

likely to be a shiny white, a bright white, the kind light flashes

o ff o f like it’s a mirror sending signals and there’s only one

signal widely comprehended on cement: get me. The light can

catch someone’s eye so you have to walk like Zen himself,

walk and not walk, you are a master in the urban Olym pics for

girls, an athlete o f girlish survival, it’s a survival game for the

w orld’s best. You get past them and you celebrate, you

celebrate in your heart, you thank the Lord, in your heart you

say a prayer o f gratitude and forgiveness, you forgive Him,

it’s sincere, and you hope He don’t take it as a challenge,

razor-sharp temper He’s got, no do unto others for Him; and if

you hear someone behind you you beg, in half a second you