(2004) Citizen Vince (5 page)

Okay, let’s assume David is right, and it’s not someone from his old crew out to get Vince. Could one of Vince’s own guys be trying to get a bigger cut, or increase the number of credit cards in play? The mailman? No way. Clueless. That leaves Doug and Lenny. He can’t imagine Len has the brains, or Doug the balls. They both seem harmless. Still, there’s an old Sicilian proverb that Coletti used to quote:
The smiling enemy is the one to fear.

President Carter doesn’t need to be told this:
This attitude is extremely dangerous and belligerent in its tone, although it’s said with a quiet voice.
And perhaps it’s that last phrase—
a quiet voice
—that finally forces Vince to snap out of his own head and register the low hum he’s been hearing for the last thirty seconds. A car is idling outside.

Among certain groups—political operatives, criminal gangs, middle school girls—every breath is conspiracy. And so it should come as no surprise that Reagan’s people have gotten their hands on Jimmy Carter’s debate notes and used them to coach their candidate. Or that Reagan may be working behind the scenes to make sure the hostages aren’t released until
after
the election.

And what about Vince—crouched in front of the parted curtains, looking around his house for some kind of weapon? What plots swarm around him, what currents of malevolence and greed and dark chance? And more important: Who’s in that car idling outside his house?

VINCE CRAWLS ON
his hands and knees across the frosted lawn. He doesn’t recognize the car—an early 1970s Impala. He grips the narrow lead pipe, cold in his hands. Found it under the sink. Grass crunches beneath him. Vince crawls away from the car, toward his neighbor’s house, then along a shrub line, until he emerges directly behind the car and breathes in carbon monoxide. There’s a bumper sticker on the car:
I BRAKE FOR SASQUATCH
! Vince crouches and sidesteps, hefts the pipe one more time, exhaling in small bursts. Okay. Okay.

He reaches the back bumper without the driver seeing him. Okay. Deep in his crouch. The driver is smoking, staring down the block. Vince closes his eyes, counts three and rushes the driver’s-side door, opens it and pulls the guy out by his hair, throws him down in the grass, and his cigarette sparks and flies across the lawn and he crab-crawls away on his back.

It’s just a kid, maybe eighteen, long stringy red hair and a blue letterman’s coat with a big yellow
M.
“I’m sorry!” he says, and covers his head.

Vince holds the pipe up, but doesn’t swing it. “Are you alone?”

“Yeah. Jesus. Don’t hit me.”

“Someone tell you to park in front of my house?”

“Yeah. She said to wait here.”

“What’s your name?”

“Everett.”

“Everett, I’m going to bust open your head unless you tell me who sent you.”

“Nicky. Nicky said to wait down the block.”

“Who’s Nicky?”

“What?”

“Nicky. Who the hell is Nicky?”

“Please, sir. Don’t do this. I’ll leave.”

“Who…is Nicky?”

“Well, I’m assuming she’s your daughter, sir.”

Vince sees her then, a girl from the neighborhood. Fifteen, sixteen tops. Climbing up from a window well in the basement of a house three doors down. She wipes the grass off her jeans and starts toward Vince and this boy. But she sees Vince holding a pipe and her stealth date lying on the ground, and she stops and, without changing her expression, turns and climbs back into her window well.

After a moment, Vince helps the kid up and they watch together as the pretty girl shimmies back into the basement window.

I’VE BEEN PRESIDENT
now for almost four years. I’ve had to make thousands of decisions. I’ve seen the strength of my nation, and I’ve seen the crises it approached in a tentative way. And I’ve had to deal with those crises as best I could.

Vince stands in his dark house with another beer, two feet from the television set, staring into Jimmy Carter’s hooded eyes as he delivers his closing remarks:
I alone have had to determine the interests of my country and the degree of involvement of my country. I’ve done that with moderation, with care, with thoughtfulness.

Sometimes you just get tired. And maybe there are forces aligned against you, maybe they have stolen your debate notes and maybe they’re even making deals with terrorists and maybe the minute you’re out of office, the hostages will come home. Then again: maybe not. Maybe you’re just too tired to go on. And maybe
that
is defeat, in the end…simply giving in. Maybe it’s no worse than going to sleep.

Yes, that’s it, the president says.
It is a lonely job. The
American people now are facing, next Tuesday, a lonely decision. Those listening to my voice will have to make a judgment about the future of this country. And I think they ought to remember that one vote can make a lot of difference. If one vote per precinct had changed in 1960, John Kennedy would never have been president of this nation.

One vote…See, you’re not afraid of Lenny. Or Doug. Or the mailman. Or even all three of them together. The conspiracy itself is not what gets you;
it’s the idea that they’re conspiring.
The unknown. It’s not one snowflake, one vote; it’s the idea of a landslide. That’s what’s so scary. How many times have you imagined that life would be easier if you knew the future? Well, you know the future. We’re all walking dead.

The sun’s going to explode one day…so don’t get out of bed? Fifteen billion years or fifteen minutes…does it matter? Does anything matter?

And then, of all people, Ronald Reagan offers an answer:
Next Tuesday is Election Day. Next Tuesday you will go to the polls, stand there in the polling place, and make a decision. I think when you make that decision, it might be good if you would ask yourself…

Are you better off than you were four years ago?

Vince drops his beer. It thuds on the carpet. Bleeds foam.

A single thought is nothing; combined, the thousands of separate electrochemical, synaptic sparks that went into creating this sentence wouldn’t fire a ten-watt bulb. And yet here is Vince Camden, at the peak of technology and development, at the crest of a remarkable wave of human achievement, in a world created by piling these single thoughts together, strung out over millennia—here is Vince Camden, himself a technological and legal creation, standing alone in a heated, wired, insulated shelter, witnessing a thirteen-inch box beaming a mash of electrons that when unscrambled depict two men vying for the most powerful position in the history of the world at a time when the push of a button can effectively end civilization. Here is Vince Camden, overwhelmed by
his own significance and by his desire to change, by the undertow of history, and by the weight of so many choices, undone by this miracle of being and by all of these strands connected in the thread of one simple thought:

Which of these stupid fucks are you supposed to vote for?

1980 / October 29 / Wednesday / 2:25
A.M
.

Hookers arguing about bras.

If he’d known, Vince would’ve just kept walking. He was deep in thought about this election business, and something about it was making him feel better—or distracted anyway—but now he’s outside Sam’s Pit, and Beth and her friend Angela are waving their hands in the cold air, making points with little bursts of steam.

“Vince can settle it,” says Angela, and she toddles over in a pair of heels that make her lean dangerously far forward and transform her ass into a shelf. “Beth thinks guys like bras, but I said you all would just as soon see the bare titties.”

Vince looks from Angela, all brown and curvy, to Beth, skinny, pale—frayed cast behind her back. “I don’t think I’m the right guy to ask.”

Angela takes Vince’s arm in hers and bunkers it with boobs. She flutters her eyes and he can feel the dusting of her long lashes on his cheek. “Oh, come on, Vince. Which would you rather see? Beth’s bra…or these?”

“Well, those are nice.” Vince glances down at the dark crease
of Angela’s cleavage. “Then again, a bra has a…certain sensuality.”

Angela pushes him away. “You’d like balls if Beth had a pair.”

Beth laughs uncomfortably. “Angela!”

Vince escapes into Sam’s, already crowded with cigarette smoke and poker games, ribs, and beneath-the-counter booze. Eddie comes up from the basement with a pan of coated chicken wings.

“Vince Camden. Hardest-working man in donuts. How she goin’, Vince?”

“Good. How you doin’, Sam?”

“Fat, tired, and diabetic.” Eddie is sixty, black, with a gray beard and black-rimmed glasses.

Vince stops and turns to face him. “Hey, can I ask you something?”

Eddie shrugs. “What’s on your mind, Vince?”

“I was just wondering, who do you think won the debate?”

“Two whores arguing about bras? Ain’t no winner in a goddamn thing like that.”

“No. No. I mean the presidential debate.”

Eddie just stares.

“You know. Carter and Reagan? Last night on TV?”

Eddie thinks for a minute, and then shrugs. “Like I said, Vince: ain’t no winner when a couple of whores start arguing.”

“
COLOR HAS A
lot to do with it. Bet a buck.”

“You mean like black or red?”

“Yeah, those are good. Or even white. Just not that flesh color.”

“Color don’t matter long as they ain’t all wired up. Call.”

“No, see, that there’s a support bra, your twenty-four-hour model. That’s a good thing. A little wire in the cage means they’s plenty a’ booby inside.”

“Booby? Did you just say
booby?
”

“The wired ones are too hard to get off. Bump a buck.”

“Then maybe you shouldn’t wear one.”

“I mean hard to get off the woman.”

“Maybe you should try it when she’s awake. Call.”

“I’m okay with the front clasp, but that back clasp…shit oh day.”

“That’s right. That’s flyin’ blind, undoing that back clasp.”

“What do you think, Vince?”

He looks up. It always comes to this—their deferral to him. The guys are staring, holding their cards like a bunch of kids playing Go Fish. Behind them Angela is sitting on her pimp’s lap, sharing a drumstick. Next to them an off-duty uniformed cop is signing Beth’s cast. Vince checks his watch. Quarter to four.

“All right,” Vince says, and straightens. “I’m going to tell you what it is, but then we’re done talking about this. Okay? We talk about something intelligent for a change. Like politics. Agreed?”

Guys nod and listen intently. Jacks swills champagne from a magnum in his lap.

“Okay. First thing you have to realize is that a bra is a symbol for male anxiety. It’s, what do you call it…a surrogate for the clitoris. You know? That fear that we’re all thumbs—it’s dark and confusing and we don’t know what we’re doing down there. Sometimes we get lucky, but even then we don’t know exactly what we did. Ten to eighty, all we think about is girls—and when we finally get one, turns out we don’t know shit about ’em.” He shrugs. “So that’s all a bra is—one more thing about women we’re afraid we don’t know how to work.”

The guys stare.

“But you get past that anxiety? Well…For example, there’s that point in the middle of foreplay; just before the fun starts? You’re both half undressed…could still go either way. She could change her mind. And you’re out of your head for her. Kissing and chewing her neck. Your hands are wrestling around, trying to figure out if it’s a hook clasp or a bend-and-twist.

“And right then, at that moment—she stops you. Pulls your hands away. Stands up. Smiles down at you. And then, as slowly as she can…watching your eyes as she does it…she lowers the straps, unhooks her bra…and lets it fall to the ground.”

No one breathes. Angela and her pimp stare. Beth, too. The whole room.

“So yeah. I think a bra is sexy. Now”—Vince straightens up and tosses a five into the pot—“am I the only one here who watched the goddamned debate?”

FOUR-THIRTY IN
the morning. The girls hit Vince at the door, but he’s distracted today. He has no credit cards and he sells weed without ceremony, before they can bestow hugs and innuendo. Tonight even Beth waits at the door, biting her bottom lip, waiting until the other girls leave. “I like what you said about bras, Vince.”

“How you doing, Beth?”

She shifts her weight. “I can’t sleep I’m so nervous.”

“About what?”

She looks at him as if it should be obvious. “The open house. Remember? I told you about it last night. I’m running an open house for Larry.”

“Oh, sure, sure.” Vince had totally forgotten. “When is that again?”

“Saturday, Sunday, and Monday. You’re coming, right?”

“Of course I’m coming.”

“It’s just…I have these dreams where some old trick comes in, or the cops arrest me, or I say something completely retarded.”

“Beth—”

“Just tell me the truth. Do people laugh at me?”

“Laugh at you?”

“For trying to get my real estate license? It’s stupid, isn’t it?”

“No,” he says. “It’s not stupid.”

“Tell me the truth.”

“It’s not stupid.”

“You know how every stripper says she’s saving for college? But it’s just something they say to make the guys feel better about watching a girl take her clothes off—like their hard-ons are contributing to a better world.

“Well, I think, maybe at the beginning, it was like that for me. I just liked to hear myself say it: ‘I’m studying to be a real estate agent.’” She leans in and practically whispers. “But now…Shoot, Vince—I mean, they might actually let me do this. And what if I can’t? What if I’m not smart enough?”

“Beth—”

“It hurts my head to think about. It’s stupid how much I want this.”

Finally Vince reaches out and grabs her broken arm. “Look: don’t ever feel stupid for wanting something better!”

They’re both a little surprised by the force of his answer, and Vince knows he’s also talking to himself. They stand across from each other, staring, until Vince lets go of her cast and looks away, embarrassed. “So tell me about this house.”

Maybe it’s wrong, winding her up like this on real estate (“It’s one of those forties north-side stucco bungalows with no yard, no garage, and no charm”) since he suspects that the realtor she works for, this guy Larry, is just stringing her along for sex (“They’re asking thirty-two, but if they get twenty-five I’ll shit buttermilk biscuits”) and that she will likely never sell houses for a living (“If this thing passes FHA inspection, I will literally blow the inspector…Okay, not literally”), and yet he really does believe what he said about how you can’t apologize for wanting to be better.

Still, he’s beginning to realize that there’s another part to it, something he didn’t consider before last night.

“How’s Kenyon?” he asks.

“He’s great, Vince,” Beth says, and looks down. “Thank you.” She squeezes his arm, takes a step toward Sam’s Pit, turns to say something else, then breaks into a smile and goes into Sam’s.

Jacks passes Beth on the way out, and holds the door for her. Vince is lighting a smoke. Jacks blows on his cold hands.

“I ask you something, Jacks?”

Jacks takes a step closer, four hundred pounds packed into a running suit like nylon sausage. “What’s on your mind?”

“Are you better off than you were four years ago?”

“Four years?” Jacks stares at the ground. “Four years ago I was married to Satan. So, yeah, on the whole I’d say I’m better off. What about you? Are you better off?”

Vince shrugs. “See, I never thought about it before last night. But I think a guy could move across country, change his name, job, his friends—change everything…”

A car trolls by slowly and Vince watches it pass.

“…and not really change at all.”

VINCE IS IN
love.

Okay, that might be a little strong since he’s never said more than a few dozen words to this woman, and those words have only been about two subjects—donuts and books—and since he only knows her first name, Kelly, and since he only sees her once a week, when she buys a dozen to take to the nursing home where her mother lives.

But if Vince were going to be in love, this would be it. Kelly is a legal secretary who comes in at 10:50 every Wednesday morning, on her way to see her mother. And so, every Wednesday at 10:40, Vince sneaks to the bathroom to check his hair in the mirror. He takes off his apron and sits at a table with a cup of coffee and a paperback book—a different paperback each week. He was reading a book when he met Kelly four months ago; he had taken a coffee
break with a worn copy of
The Milagro Beanfield War
that someone had left in the donut shop. Vince has always liked reading. In jail he went on nonfiction jags, reading a book a day: Lewis and Clark, Greek mythology, architecture. But he’d soured on novels years earlier and hadn’t read one until that day, when he found
The Milagro Beanfield War
on a chair.

He was in Chapter I, enjoying the description of some old Mexican guy’s troubled life, when he looked up and saw two long smooth legs leading up to a pair of shorts and, eventually, two electric eyes.

“Isn’t that a great novel?”

Vince looked down at the paperback and managed to mutter, “Yes.”

“Don’t you love the characters?”

“Yes.”

“Do you read a lot?”

“Yes.”

“Fiction?”

“Yes,” he managed to say to the legs and eyes.

“Me, too,” she said. “There’s nothing I love more than curling up in front of a fire with a good novel.”

Love. There it was. That was the word that did it for Vince. Love. From that moment on, he had vowed to love novels, too, to find himself curled up in front of a fire with Kelly. So now every Wednesday after work he goes to the used bookstore in his neighborhood and trades the novel he was reading for a new one. During the week, he leaves the book in his locker at work and gets as far as he can on coffee breaks so that by the following Wednesday morning he can talk intelligently about a new book when Kelly comes in. He rarely gets halfway through them, just far enough to understand what the book is about, enough to talk to her about it. Then he trades the book for a new one.

He’d like to finish some of the books, but he needs to get a new one each week—so they have something to talk about, but also
because he superstitiously believes he might find the novel that causes her to fall for him. But there’s another reason he never finishes, if he’s honest with himself. He’s afraid of being disappointed by the endings, which is the reason he stopped reading fiction. He’d read
Great Expectations
at Rikers and had loved it—this story of a criminal secretly sponsoring some poor kid’s life—until the jail librarian pointed out that Dickens had written two endings. When he found the original ending Vince felt betrayed by the entire idea of narrative fiction. This story he’d carried around in his head had two endings? A book, like a life, should have only one ending. Either the adult Pip and Estella walk off holding hands, or they don’t. For him, the ending of that book rendered it entirely moot, five hundred pages of moot. Every novel moot.

So he only reads the beginnings now. And it’s not bad. He’s even begun to think of this as a more effective approach, to sample only the beginnings of things. After all, a book can only end one of two ways: truthfully or artfully. If it ends artfully, then it never feels quite right. It feels forced, manipulated. If it ends truthfully, then the story ends badly, in death. It’s the reason most theories and religions and economic systems break down before you get too far into them—and the reason Buddhism and the Beach Boys make sense to teenagers, because they’re too young to know what life really is: a frantic struggle that always ends the same way. The only thing that varies is the beginning and the middle. Life itself always ends badly. If you’ve seen someone die, you don’t need to read to the end of some book to learn that.

Vince’s sampling of the beginnings of novels was going fine until a few weeks ago, when Kelly failed to ask about a book he was reading (
Cancer Ward
by Solzhenitsyn) and Vince panicked, ran to the dotty old clerk at his used bookstore, and asked for help. The clerk, Margaret, theorized that perhaps Vince’s reading list was becoming too prosaic and linear (“Too plotty”) to duly impress a twenty-six-year-old woman in the year 1980. Since then Margaret has been sending Vince in some strange directions, toward mod
ernism, metafiction, and the avant-garde. And Vince has been pleasantly surprised. Last week he read
Pricksongs and Descants,
a book of short “fictions” by Robert Coover, and found himself explaining to the seemingly refascinated Kelly the way Coover fractured the world into not only different points of view, but into different realities. (“It’s like there are all these pieces on the ground and we can pick them up and make the world we want.”) He was thrilled when she expressed interest and peppered him with questions.

So now he’s gone even further into experimental fiction with this
System of Dante’s Hell,
an angry, concentric, metaphoric, poetic guidebook to hell by the militant black author LeRoi Jones. Vince isn’t sure he gets it, but he’s enjoying the language and some of the images as he starts in on the fourth circle of hell—
“A summer of dead names. Early twilight of birds beyond the buildings
…
”
and that’s what he’s reading when Kelly walks in and comes directly to his table.