Last Ditch Read online

I've come to believe that these vagrants unwittingly stumble into the minefield of our deepest unacknowledged fears. You know the ones. The voice that wonders just how long you're going to be able to keep fooling all of the people all of the time. The insistent whisper that questions if you really deserve all the blessings you have and knows, with absolute certainty, that the answer is an unequivocal no fucking way.

  I've come to see that the problem is not one of caring or kindness, but rather of self-preservation. We can't help ourselves. We keep our distance. We quicken our steps, square our shoulders and put on that thousand-yard stare. Forced close to them, we hold our collective breaths as if it were possible for the filament vapors of fear and failure to crawl down our throats and come to rest in our lungs like tumors. We don't mean it. We're not unkind or uncaring. It's just that terrible, lingering doubt that forces us to live our lives in constant fear, as if to consider the hopelessness of their plight for even an instant would surely weaken us, leaving us forever more susceptible to fortune, to disease, to folly. My timing was perfect. I rolled the Fiat into the Vine

  Street parking lot just as the sun winked for the last time and then disappeared behind the Olympics. The distant mountains stood like jagged jack-o'-lantern teeth, fearsome and uneven in the orange mouth of the sunset Thin needles of airborne foam prickled my cheeks as I locked the car and started across the parking lot. Ahead in the distance, the white concrete silos of the Pier Eight-six Grain Terminal surrendered to the dark northern sky. On my left, an insistent wind ruffled the surface of Elliott Bay, sliding on the muscular blue water, horizon to horizon, steadily toward the black boulders of shore. I turned up my collar and was about to duck my head into the wind when I saw them.

  George, Harold, Ralph and Nearly Normal Norman lounged about the leeward side of a mossy hillock at the near end of the park, passing a trio of bag-shrouded hims among them. Ralph's shopping cart rested atop the crest like a modern-art monument to dubious acquisition.

  George was the only one facing my way, but he was either too involved or too shitfaced to notice my approach. Probably both. He'd been a banker once and a serious mover and shaker in the Downtown Businessmen's Association. He'd been on the street for the better part of twenty-five years but remarkably, didn't look much worse for the wear. His sharp features and slicked-back white hair gave him the look of a defrocked boxing announcer. He pulled a bagged him from Ralph's hand and raised it to his lips.

  Ralph Batista had once been a high-ranking official with the Port of Seattle and had mustered the longshoreman vote for my old man. Like the others, his unquenchable taste for the grape had eventually drowned whatever life he'd had, leaving him adrift among the flotsam and jetsam of the streets with an ever-present smile and paucity of functioning brain cells. Ralph had attained nirvana through numbness.

  The wind carried his voice to me.

  "If Bo Derek married Don Ho, she'd be Bo Ho."

  Harold Green choked a couple of ounces of whatever he was drinking out through his nose and then wiped his face with his sleeve

  "Bo Ho," he sputtered. "That's good. Bo Ho."

  Harold had sold men's shoes at the Bon Marche and had been a minor functionary in the Retailers Union. He used to be taller. Each passing year carved another couple of pounds from his gaunt frame, further emphasizing his baseball-sized Adam's apple and cab-door ears. He was beginning to look like Mr. Potato Head.

  As I started across the grass toward them, Norman piped in.

  "If Snoop Doggy Dogg married Winnie the Pooh, he'd be Snoop Doggy Dogg Pooh.'"

  "Snoop what? Who the fuck is that?" George demanded.

  "The rapper, man. You know. 'Gin and Juice.' "

  George shook his head. "Rap is crap," he declared.

  Norman rose from the ground, steadied himself for a moment and then began to shuffle from side to side. At six foot seven and drunk as a skunk, he moved with all the grace of a giraffe on Rollerblades. He sang. If that's what you called it.

  Little or nothing was known of Nearly Normal Norman's background. When he first blew into town about five years ago, I'd inquired as to his family's state of origin and had, on successive attempts, been met with answers of Rhode Island, Indiana and Sri Lanka. In kinder, gentler times, Norman would have been wearing paper slippers and crocheting pot holders in a nice warm sanitarium somewhere. The miracles of Reaganomics had put him on the street.

  Other than a nuclear thirst, what kept this particular group of guys together was their similar financial status. Normal had some sort of small trust fund that paid out by the month. The other three had managed to work long enough to have earned meager monthly stipends from their respective employers. Not a full pension, not enough to make it alone, but enough, when you added in the money I paid them, to collectively keep them in liquor and mostly out of the rain.

  Norman waved his massive arms and continued gyrating wildly.

  George blinked twice and pointed my way.

  "Well, look what we got here," he slurred.

  Ralph swiveled his head and then waited for his eyes to catch up.

  "Leo," he shouted.

  "Howdy, fellas," I said.

  "Pull up some grass," said Harold.

  George waved him off. "Gotta be careful with that kind of talk, Harry," he said. "Remember, Leo here used to smoke that wacky weed. Doan want him to relapse or nothin'."

  Harold grinned. "I remember. Wasn't a Hostess Cupcake or a Ding Dong safe around the kid."

  Norman had stopped dancing and was now patting his pockets.

  "You wanna burn a bowl, Leo? I think I got some real good bud somewhere here on me."

  I held up my hand. "No thanks, Normal. I've only got a second."

  "Oh, yeah," George groused. "Mr. On Television got no time for the likes of us riffraff."

  I sat down on the damp grass next to George and threw

  an arm around his bony shoulders. "On the contrary, my

  good man, spending some time with you riffraff is just

  what I had in mind." . "

  "We seen you today ... on the TV down at Steve's Broiler," Ralph said. "Ya really stuck it to the old judgy wudgy."

  "They're gonna fry him," Harold offered.

  "Not in our lifetimes," I said. "He'll die of old age before he exhausts his appeals. Either that or some guy he sentenced will punch his ticket for him and save the state the trouble."

  "Your old man never liked him,'' George said suddenly. He took a short pull and then continued. "Always said Dougie was a prisoner of his dick. Wild Bill never had any respect for a guy couldn't control himself that way. Figured if a guy could be led around by his fly, he wasn't good for nothin' else." He took another pull, longer this time, and then thrust his him in my direction.

  I took it. With these guys, the act of swillage had attained full-scale religious significance. To refuse was the worst sort of heresy. I knew the drill. As far as they were concerned, only teetotalers ranked lower on the evolutionary scale than sippers. I sniffed. Peach schnapps. It could be worse. I brought the him to my lips and took a full swallow. I let the thick liquid slide down my throat and then passed the him on to Ralph.

  While we sat there on the grass playing musical hims and shooting the breeze about old times, Normal stood on the side of the hill batting at himself like he was on fire. Having determined that his weed was not in any of his outer garments, he was now working his way down through the six or seven layers beneath. Clothes were beginning to pile up around his ankles like molted skin. The wind carried the smell of mothballs and body odor to my nostrils.

  "Could you guys use a day's work?" I asked. Normal stopped patting himself. Ralph set the botde in his lap.

  "You got work for us?" he asked.

  "No, he's taking a friggin' survey," George said.

  I ignored him. "Yup. Fifty a day each. Free lunch. Free beer. Maybe even a little schnapps when the job is done."

  When the cheering subsided, I saw that Normal had found what he was
looking for and was now using his thumb to tamp a small green bud down into the bowl of a wooden pipe. Out over his shoulder the lighted green globe atop the Seattle Post-Intelligencer building spun slowly. Big red letters, IT’S IN THE PI. IT’S IN THE PI.

  I got to my feet Already, I could feel the schnapps in my head. It was escape now or show up at home walking on my knees, smelling like reefer. I no longer kid myself about just having a few. I've never wanted a few of anything in my life. With me, it's like the old song says: all or nothing at all. Time to get the hell out of here.

  "Pick you guys up right here at ten tomorrow morning," I said over my shoulder. Norman began rapping again.

  "Rollin' down the street, smokin' endo, sippin' on gin and juice. 'G's up, hoes down.' "

  Chapter 3

  Whoever Said thai at either end of the socioeconomic spectrum there exists a leisure class was absolutely correct. It was ten twenty-five when I pulled Rebecca's blue Explorer into the driveway and turned off the ignition. The bitching started immediately.

  "What are we doin' here?" George demanded. "You forget somethin' or what?"

  "This is where we're working," I said.

  In the rearview mirror, Harold looked confused. "What are we gonna do here, Leo? We gonna guard the joint?"

  "Yard work."

  Big-time silence. Then George spoke. "Yard work. Wadda ya mean we're gonna do yard work?"

  "The pay's the same either way," I said.

  "I thought we was doing detective work," said Ralph.

  "Nope," I said, stepping out onto the asphalt. "Rebecca and I figured this was a chance to do a few of the things we've been talking about doing ever since we moved in. Come on."

  Nobody moved. Instead, they all looked to George. He sat in the passenger seat with his arms folded across his chest, slowly shaking his head. "Yard work," he said incredulously. "Are you shittin' me?"

  I walked around to his side and pulled open the door.

  "Come on, man. Nothing too heavy. Just going to clean things up a bit and burn some trash." I spread my arms, palms upward. "Not a bad day. Not too hot, not too cold, not raining. Come on," I wheedled. "It'll be tons of fun."

  George folded his arms higher and tighter and then turned his face away. "Just because we're bums don't mean we'll do yard work, for Chrissakes," he muttered. "We got standards, ya know."

  "What if somebody found out?" Harold whined.

  Before I could respond, Normal kicked open the rear door and stepped out He left the door open as he bent over, took me by the shoulder and whispered in my ear.

  "You say we could bum stuff?"

  I didn't like the gleam in his eye. Not one bit. It reminded me of that Applewhite character. You remember, old Onion Head. The one who cut off his own balls and then talked his followers into offing themselves so's they could rendezvous with the big spaceship in the sky. That one. The look in that man's eyes is going to the grave with me. These days, anytime I find myself harboring retro-romantic notions regarding the intelligence of my fellow creatures, I just conjure up the image of his face and that faraway lunar look in his eyes, and then I immediately go out shopping for newer and better weapons.

  "A small to medium fire," I amended.

  He pulled me closer, crushing me in his vicelike grip.

  "I get to tend it"

  "Okay," I said tentatively, taking a mental inventory of all available smoke detectors, fire extinguishers and garden hoses. "We'll do it way in the back of the yard by the cliff."

  The house where my parents had lived from the time I was seven was the only part of my trust fund which I was legally able to use prior to my forty-fifth"' birthday. Since my father's death in seventy-four, I'd always chosen to rent the place out rather than live in it rent-free. Call me sentimental, but a couple of grand a month for doing nothing had always seemed preferable to rattling around in a twelve-room house with a couple of ghosts who weren't talking to one another.

  Earlier this year, however, circumstances had conspired to force me to either putt or get off the green regarding my relationship with Rebecca. And after a mere nineteen years of dating, too. What's the world coming to? Everybody's in such a hurry. Anyway, Rebecca and I talked it over and reached an adult, collaborative decision that the most sensible course of action would be to move into the newly renovated family manse. Something about the twelve rooms with a view, rent-free, attracted her.

  "Okay," sighed George. "What the hell. We been to Rome; we might as well see the Pope." He opened the door and slipped out onto the pavement. "What's for lunch anyway? And where's that cold beer you was runnin' your gums about?"

  Norman grinned, reached into the backseat and lifted Harold out by the front of his coat.

  Ralph stayed put. "Ain't been here in a long time," he said to nobody in particular, running his eyes over the front of the house.

  "Let's go, Ralphie," Norman growled. "Time's a-wastin’"

  Ralph didn't move. He sat there staring at the house in silence.

  "The hell I will," he said finally.

  The idea of Ralph being anything but agreeable left everyone openmouthed with wonder. Everybody but Norman. Norman wasn't about to take no for an answer. He bent at the waist and leaned into the car, reaching out a big paw.

  Quicker than I'd ever seem him move, Ralph popped open the far door and hopped out, very nearly slamming the door on Norman's hand. He leaned hard against the door, pointing a grimy finger in my direction.

  "You got no goddamn respect, Leo. You had any goddamn respect you'd leave things the way they was, not be changin' everything around all the time. Your folks wanted anything different they'da changed it on their own, you hear me? You got no goddamn respect"

  I figured he meant all the changes to the house. After twenty years as a rental, the place had needed major work, so the trust had arranged for it to be completely renovated, from top to bottom. Inside and out They'd gutted the place. The original house was a dimly lit place of heavy drapes and dark wood, a place where the silence was punctuated only occasionally by the sounds of clicking heels and closing doors. Now, everything inside was light and open spaces. Outside, the jungle of shrubs and vines which once totally covered the exterior of the house had been hacked into submission and the bricks sandblasted back to their original rust color.

  Ralph started toward the street shouting as he walked.

  "Ain't nothing the same anymore. Can't nobody leave nothing alone." He stopped and shook a fist at me. If he'd had. fangs, they'd have been bared. "You do your own goddamn yard work. You want everything different, you do it yourself. I ain't havin' no part of it"

  He turned on his heel and headed for the street.

  "Ralphie," George yelled. "Come on back here."

  But it was no good. Ralph kept waving us off and walking until he rounded the corner on Terry and shuffled from view.

  "How much did he drink last night?" I inquired.

  "No more'n usual," said Harold.

  "Maybe a little less," confirmed, George. "Maybe that's it. Maybe he's parched. A man'll do weird shit if he's parched."

  "Sure got a bug up his chimney," said Norman. "You want I should bring him back, Leo?"

  "No," I said. "We'D leave the slave labor to Judge Brennan."

  BY THE TIME we broke for lunch at one, we'd made serious progress on both the yard and the cooler. In the yard, the old cedar fence that ran along the cliff had been pulled down board by board, the rotting posts torn from the ground and added to the substantial blaze which Norman lovingly tended in the rear corner of the yard.

  Harold yelled across the yard, "Leo, we need more suds."

  I turned off the Weed Eater, smeared my sweaty brow with my bare forearm and strolled over to the cooler. All that remained was the sixer of Bud Light I'd told Rebecca not to buy.

  "It's not empty," I called.

  "Nothin' but Light shit."

  "Well, have a Light. I'll get some more of the other out of the fridge as soon as I finish thi
s section." "I'll wait," he said.

  I made a disgusted face. "What? One light beer's gonna kill you?"

  From behind me, George piped in. "Light beer's like screwing in a canoe."

  Normal nodded and grinned. I was supposed to bite, so I did.

  "How's that?" I inquired.

  "Fucking w-a-a-a-y too close to water," they said in unison.

  They yukked it up, hooting and hollering as they stomped about.

  "Let's break for lunch," I said and headed inside for beer.

  The tray of cold cuts Rebecca got from Safeway was a big bit. What the catering manager had assured her would be ample for a party of eight disappeared, right down to the paper doily, in about twenty-five minutes.

  George belched loudly into his fist and said, "Ralphie don't know what he's missin'. Poor bastard."

  "He hates missin' a free meal," Harold agreed.

  "A free anything," Norman added, tilting his head back and swallowing the last pickle slice whole, like a gull downing a herring.

  "Sure had a burr under his saddle," I said.

  George pounded on his sternum with the top of his fist.

  "I think maybe it was just too much for him. You know, seein' the house lookin' all different, you know, with other people livin' in it and all."

  "I'm not other people," I protested.

  "You know what I mean. He and your old man were real tight, and you know Ralphie's the sentimental type."

  "Really," I said. "I hadn't noticed."

  George nodded solemnly. "Oh, yeah. Couple of weeks ago we snuck into that new theater up on Seventh and Pike, the one with all the screens." He pointed at Harold. "You ask Harry, halfway through The English Patient Ralphie boy was blubbering so hard we had to get the hell out of there before we got pinched."

  "Snot-nose kid behind the candy counter wouldn't give us no more napkins," Harold added.

  "What are we gonna burn next?" Normal asked, eyeing the redwood benches beneath us.

  "That thing," I said.

  I pointed to the right rear corner of the house, where the partially collapsed remains of a small greenhouse listed precariously to starboard. Right after my parents moved into the place, my mother had gotten into a screaming argument with the landscape contractor and decided that henceforth, landscapes be damned, she was going to propagate and plant her own shrubbery. The old man, as I recall, thought the idea ridiculous, but after a couple of weeks of listening to her gripe, he'd relented and called in a crew. I could still hear his voice as he spoke to the foreman. "What the hey," he'd said. "Who knows, maybe it'll keep her out of the house." The foreman had nodded knowingly.