In the City of Shy Hunters

Grove Press

Chapter One

The airplane landed at La Guardia, August 3, 1983. My first timeever in New York City, and in all the world, I was leaning upagainst a cement wall, an unrelenting fluorescent light above me,the bill of my red ball cap the only shade for miles. Exhaust fumes. Iwas minding my business, just outside the doors where you claim yourbaggage, waiting for the express bus to the city. My wallet was in myinside jacket pocket. Inside my chest, no room for breath. Sweat rollingfrom my pits. My duffel bag was against the wall next to me. On topof my duffel bag, my suitcase with the travel stickers on it, and on topof the suitcase, my backpack. I was rolling a cigarette with one handlike I can when I saw the van. A 1970 maroon Dodge van with hippiecalligraphy DOOR OF THE DEAD on the side.

    Door of the Dead was a game my sister Bobbie and Charlie 2Moonsand I used to play.

    I took it as a sign.

    Blue smoke was coming out the back of the van and people wereclimbing inside, through the side door, white people all in black. Blackleotards, black luggage, black hats, black shoes.

    Then, just like that, Ruby Prestigiacomo's face was smiling right infront of me.

    Don't let the van spook you, Ruby said. We just bought it from theband, Ruby said, smiling, The Door of the Dead band.

    There's room for one more, Ruby said. You'll be all night here waitingfor a cab. I can give you a ride for fifteen dollars. Cab'll cost youtwenty-five.

    Inside my chest, near the sore place where I smoke, so easy, I feltRuby's smile.

    I wished I could be so easy, wished I could smile like that.

    My wallet was still in my inside jacket pocket. Ruby just kept there,kept standing in the unrelenting fluorescence, smiling, too close, his blueeyes the way crazy people look at you, moving in on you, like when yougo to kiss somebody. Blue eyes and thick red-blond hair, blond hair onhis forearms. Beautiful. The kind of skin that freckles and tans gold. Hisred polyester shirt?buttons open so far down I had to avert my eyes. Hairpulled back in a ponytail. A silver ankh dangling from his queer ear, soulpatchtriangle of red-blond hair just under his bottom lip.

    Ruby Prestigiacomo, what am I going to do with you?

    All death did was make Ruby smile all the more.

YOU'RE GOING TO wait all night here for a cab, Ruby said. Fifteen dollars,Ruby said, Anywhere in Wolf Swamp.

    Wolf Swamp? I said.

    Manhattan, Ruby said.

    Ruby reached into his inside coat pocket and pulled out an old blueVelcro wallet, pulled the wallet open, and from the wad of papers pulledout a business card. Ruby's fingers were long and thin and there wasgrease under his thumbnail. Thumb print of grease on the business card.

    ROMEOMOVERS SPIRIT SCHLEPPERS were the words on the card, WOLFSWAMP. Under SPIRIT SCHLEPPERS was DOG SHIT PARK, then under DOGSHIT PARK was RUBY PRESTIGIACOMO, under RUBY PRESTIGIACOMO a phonenumber, then under the phone number was CLYDE TRUE SHOT EXPERIENCEDDRIVER.

    Shit on a business card.

    What's Dog Shit Park? I said.

    Lower East Side, Ruby said. It's a park. Tompkins Square, but everybodyI know calls it Dog Shit Park.

    Where you going? Ruby said.

    Two-oh-five East Fifth Street, I said.

    Between Second and Third, Ruby said.

    Ruby grabbed my duffel bag and my old suitcase with the travel stickerson it. I picked up my backpack and followed Ruby past the line ofpeople waiting for taxis. My wallet was in the inside pocket of my jacket.

    The four white people all in black were sitting on their luggage inthe back of the van, all of them with big red lips, even the man. Bighoops in their ears, all of them smoking cigarettes.

    They're from France, Ruby said, Vogue magazine. They only speakFrench except for fuck you. You got the fifteen dollars?

    My wallet from my inside jacket pocket, when I opened it, mymoney was suddenly public domain opened up like that on the street.I gave Ruby a ten and a five, stuck my wallet back in my inside jacketpocket.

    Bonsoir, I said in French.

    The French Vogues all looked like mannequins. They all said quickFrench things back. Twice as hot inside the van. I sat down where I wasstanding, started doing what I always do when I don't know what to do,rolled a cigarette with one hand like I can, French Vogue mannequinsall around watching me. When I got the cigarette rolled, I offered the cigaretteto the man French Vogue first. He looked away, poked his left shoulderup, pointed his hand and took the cigarette, silver loop dangle side toside, the fuck-you smile on his red lips, red lips pursing, French grunt.

    Then it was a cigarette for each of the others, each accepting with achoreography of stance, silver loop, hair tossing.

    Sophistication.

    Savoir faire.

    Postured disregard.

    Sexy totale.

    Shit from Parisian Shinola.

    I'll have one of those too, Ruby said. Then: Where'd you learn toroll a cigarette like that?

    A friend of mine, I said. Charlie 2Moons, I said, Taught me, I said,A long time ago.

    I have my mother's nerves, so sometimes I stutter.

    Language my second language.

CLYDE TRUE SHOT Experienced Driver was big, everything about him big,extra lovely as Rose would say?chest, belly, thighs, shoulders, arms,hands. His big hands on the steering wheel, on both hands on every finger,even the thumbs, the same silver ring. From the side I was on, True Shot'snose was a hook that poked out of two high cheekbones. His hair wasblack and thick and long and tied back in a bun with a red paisley bandannatied around his head. From his neck, a beaded buckskin bag. Thehorizontal line was blue trader beads and the intersecting vertical line,red beads. The buckskin bag hung from a buckskin necklace.

    No doubt about it, I was staring. Same way as when you stare at abig snake. And big snakes always look back. On a lava rock ledge infull sun, the big snake doesn't want to even move, but the snake turns,and his eyes end on you.

    On me. True Shot put his eyes on me. I mean, his mirrors.

    True Shot's mirrors. An accessory True Shot never went without,his mirrored Armani sunglasses.

    When True Shot put his mirrors on me, I could see myself in thereon the surface, a circus freak, distorted at the state fair, my big circusnose and mustache and bug eyes.

    I saw him first! Ruby said. He's mine!

    Clyde True Shot? I said.

    Drop the Clyde, Ruby said. He's just True Shot.

    True Shot, I said. Would you like, I said, A cigarette?

    No, thank you, Ruby said. He don't smoke socially.

    There was a hand on my shoulder, and it was the French Vogue...