Caught Stealing - Charlie Huston [17]
—What the fuck? What the fuck’s with the water? Yo, Edwin, let’s have a beer.
Edwin ambles over (he does that, he really ambles) and plops a Bud down in front of me. I take a pull and nothing comes out. I take a look at the bottle. The cap is still on.
—Yo, Edwin. The cap. Pull my cap.
—Get that cap off and you can drink that beer.
I wag my finger at him. That Edwin, he’s a crafty fucker. There’s something in my hand; it’s a beer. I try to take a drink, but the cap is still on. I twist the cap and it doesn’t pop off. I put the lip of the cap on the edge of the bar and give it a good rap with my fist. I rake my knuckles across the bar and the bottle pops out of my hand onto the floor, spritzing beer. I stuff my bleeding knuckles into my mouth.
—Yo, Edwin, I need another brew here.
—Yvonne, can you put a lid on him?
—Who the fuck are you calling Yvonne? Let’s have a beer, huh?
I feel something against my feet. I look down and Yvonne is leaning down, cleaning up a beer some numb-nuts has spilled on the floor. Fuck, that pisses me off. I bend to help her and slide off my stool and someone catches me before I bite it. It’s Amtrak John.
—Amtrak John, thanks for the save, man.
—Sure.
—You’re a big motherfucker, Amtrak.
—Yep.
—Big fucker.
—Yep.
—Wanna fight?
—Sit here.
I’m on my stool and Edwin is passing me a glass. He gives it to me with his right hand, the one with RUFF tattooed across the knuckles in ink blacker than his skin; the other hand reads TUFF. I laugh as I drink the water and most of it sprays.
—You’re a funny fucker, Edwin. A fun-ny fuck-er!
—Thanks, man.
—Those fucking tattoos, man. Fun-ny!
—Thanks.
—Ya wanna fight?
—Nope.
—Shit. Nobody wants ta fight. What’s with that?
I lift my head from the bar. The bar is empty and all the lights are on. Edwin is stacking stools. I get off mine and start to help him. He looks at me.
—Take it easy, man, I’ve got it.
—It’s cool, I’ll help, I can help.
—Just chill. Sit still.
I’ve got a jacket. I’m not sure if it’s mine, but it fits.
—Edwin, this my jacket?
—Yeah, that’s it. Just hang on and me an’ Yvonne will get ya home.
—Is Yvonne here? When’d she get here?
Yvonne is holding my hand. We’re on the curb. Edwin has just climbed into a cab and taken off and now Yvonne is trying to get me into a cab.
—Come on, I’ll take you home. You can stay over; I’ll make some breakfast.
—Naw, I’m gonna walk.
—Then I’ll walk with you till you get home.
Yvonne is such a sweet girl. She loves to look after me, but she just doesn’t realize I’m not safe to be around. I mean really, who knows what’s waiting for me at home?
—Nah, nah, I’ll just walk. I gotta call Rome.
—You gotta call Rome?
—Roman, I gotta call Ro-man. About the fucking cowboys.
—Jesus, are you betting football? I thought you hated football.
—Football is a bitch’s sport. Baseball, that’s a fucking game. That’s a sport.
—Come on, get in the cab.
—Nah, gonna walk home.
—Then I’m coming with you.
—Nah. Gonna walk alone. Safer that way for you.
—I don’t need you to fucking protect me from myself, for chrissake. Fucking go home alone. Fucking get home safe, will you.
I’m walking home. It’s tricky. I push off with my right foot and drift for a moment, balancing on my left. I swing my right foot out in front of myself and lurch down onto it with a jolt. Then I push off with my left and repeat the process. The walk around the block from Paul’s to my building is revealed in snapshots, a picture taken every time I plop down on my front foot. I stutter home and it feels like the very early morning darkness is illuminated by strobe light. I have a picture of my key in my hand, a picture of flipping a light switch, a picture of struggling out of my jacket and a picture of collapsing into