Caught Stealing - Charlie Huston [26]
He’s breathing very rapidly and shallowly and his broken leg is still twisted around. I bend over stiffly and, with as much care as possible, I try to untangle his limb. He jerks a bit and makes a slight sound but remains unconscious, which I take as a very bad fucking sign. I leave him on the floor for now and head to the bathroom. On the way, I remember something and grab the air freshener from under the kitchen sink before I go in. Good call; it reeks in here.
I can’t get my shirt off over my head, so I take the scissors from the medicine cabinet and cut it off. They ripped out about nine staples and left a tear in my side just above my left hip. I drench a towel in hydrogen peroxide and use it to clean the hole. It’s bleeding, but the bulk of the stapling is intact. I get a huge wad of gauze and use it to cover the bad stuff. I have to get some electrician’s tape out of my toolbox to hold the bandage in place.
My nose is a real mess. I clean up all the goop to get a good look. It’s bright red, squashed, and bent to the left, but it has stopped bleeding. I touch it gingerly with my fingertips until I get a sense of how it has been broken and what belongs where and then I give it a rasping twist and a yank.
—Mother! Fucker!
It gives a little crackle and starts to bleed again. I tilt my head back and stuff some more gauze into the nostrils and that’s about all the time I figure I have for first aid.
The fire department has left the building and I have no idea how soon Roman and Co. might return, so it’s time to go. Bud hasn’t moved, but he’s still breathing. I get an athletic bag from the closet. I grab some clothes, my plane ticket, my ID, keys, credit cards, about a grand in cash tips from the bar. I stuff it all in the bag. Then I put in a couple towels, molding them to create a little hollow. I could put Bud in his case, but I’m afraid he’ll bounce around in there. I pick him up and tuck him snugly into the little nest of towels and zip the bag about halfway. I have him on his back so the broken leg won’t fold up underneath his body and it’s easy to imagine he’s sleeping peacefully, but he’s not. I have to get out of here.
I get a cab right away and sit in there with my head back against the seat until the driver snaps me out of it.
—Where to? This is not a taxi for sleeping in, it is for driving in. Where to?
Which is a great fucking question, I suppose.
I give the driver an address across town just off the West Side Highway. I can’t get on a plane yet. I need to get cleaned up, I need to think.
I pass out.
I met Yvonne right after she showed up in New York about six years ago. She was hanging out at Paul’s and mentioned she needed a job. Edwin put her to work. She was a few years younger than me, twenty-two at the time, and we hit it off because we were both from California. But she had a boyfriend, so I backed off. One night, I was working and she came in, her boyfriend had just dumped her. She stayed till closing and took me home.
She’s an artist, a sculptress. She uses ceramics, old rusted iron, bits of antique wood, and assorted trash to make dollhouses. She populates the houses with handmade glass figures shaped to look like people from her own life or books or TV or movies or whatever. Sometimes she sells them, sometimes she breaks them up and uses them in new pieces and sometimes she sets them on fire, takes a picture of that and sells the picture. I have two of her houses in my apartment and last year I gave another one to Mom for Christmas. I think they’re pretty cool. I think Yvonne is pretty cool. I’m just not in love with her. Which would be fine if I didn’t know she was in love with me. We carried on for quite a while, but I cut it off in the end. Mostly.
I wake up and the cabbie is pulling my arm and shouting at me:
—Not for sleeping in. You are here