Saint Mazie: A Novel (25 page)

The lads at Finny’s like to tease me about walking the streets. Like I’m a streetwalker, a real one. Oh Mazie’s got a new part-time job, ho ho ho. Last night I twisted one of their ears, and I saw tears in his eyes, though he wouldn’t admit it.

I said: I’m a queen, and don’t you ever forget it.

He said he wouldn’t.

George Flicker was there, too. I’ve always liked him fine, even though he spends half the conversation staring at my bosom. Once in a while I take his face in my hand and lift it up to meet my eyes. I don’t think it’s funny, and neither does he, but we both laugh anyway. I’d get mad at anyone else, but I’ve known him too long. I know he’s not a bad sort. I think he’s a good sort, actually. Except for the wandering eye.

Last night I sat with him after I twisted that man’s ear.

He said: I know why I’m walking the streets but what about you? It’s not safe out there for a lady. I don’t listen to these jokers over here. I know you’re a real lady.

I started talking and I didn’t stop till I was done. I wish I could remember what I said! I was in a frenzy.

She gave me this speech once and I’ll never forget it. It was this especially rough night at Finny’s, the guys were teasing her. These were the days they still teased her. She was still young and pretty enough that they cared to bother. Isn’t that an awful thing to say? Well I’m old now, and I know the truth, so I can say it. So they’re teasing her, saying she’s a streetwalker, getting customers, whatnot. And she socked some guy in the ear I think. She said, “I’m the queen!” And everyone started laughing. So I offered her this safe haven with me at a corner table. But I’d been drinking and I couldn’t leave it alone. I asked her why she did what she did when she could have just stayed home safe.

And she said, “These are dark days, Georgie. The city’s lost its pride. And what does it cost me to buy these fellas a drink or two? Or to give them some soap to clean up with, or to buy them a place to rest their heads for the night? It’s change that I already got in my pocket. What else am I going to do with it? Buy another dress? I got a whole closet full. Go on vacation? Where would I go? I live in the best city in the world. Buy myself a fancy dinner? Give me my sister’s cooking any old time. No, my change goes to these fellas on the streets. I used to give my money away to strangers, I didn’t want to look them in the face, I didn’t want to know where it went. Now I want to know where it’s going. I want to make sure it’s making some kind of difference. I walk these streets because I want to help. Why is that so hard to understand?”

She got pretty emotional. She wiped some tears from her eyes. I handed her my kerchief. Then she said, “Is it so hard to believe I could be a good person?”

I’m thirty-three now.

Rosie gave me a walking stick for my birthday.

I said: What’s this for?

She said: I know your back bothers you, and it doesn’t look like you’ll stop walking those streets anytime soon. This’ll help.

I held the stick in my hand. It’s a fine, lacquered dark wood.

She said: I know what you do.

I said: Do you now.

She said: Everyone knows you’re out there helping those bums.

I stood and practiced with it. I stood up straighter immediately.

She said: You’re a good girl, Mazie.

I said: I’m no girl any longer.

She said: Well you’re my girl, and you always will be.

Another time I remember her telling me about Rosie. I strolled into Finny’s and there she was, and I tipped my hat at her, and she patted the seat next to her, and it made me feel special, and a little tight in the pants if I must be honest here. I don’t mean to make you blush, honey. Those early sexual desires inform everything. This is what Freud said. I don’t know much about psychology but I do know what Freud said, doesn’t everyone? And that little boy in me, he liked having Mazie ask him to sit next to her. I asked her what the good word was, and she said, “I got nothing good. The streets are dire and my sister’s a loon as usual.” I said, “What’s the problem, Mazie? Moving day again?” She looked shocked that I knew about it. Maybe a little embarrassed too, I guess. I said, “Not to make a joke out of it.” She said, “I just didn’t know it was common knowledge.” I said, “I work in the business. I’m sorry. Plus I worry about you girls. No man to look out for you.” I thought I’d give it a shot, show a little bravado, see what I could get out of it. “A man to look after us isn’t what we need,” she said. “A man for her to look after is what she needs. Just so she can leave me alone already. I’d marry her off in a second if I could, but she’d never go for it. She’ll love Louis till the day she dies.”

Called an ambulance tonight, and both the attendants were cold to the poor bum. There was a bigger one, an enormous man, who was strong enough to carry the bum in his arms, but he was just flipping him around, dragging him a bit on the ground.

I said: He’s blue in the lips, how about some respect already?

He said: He can’t feel it anyway. Look at him, he’s passed out cold.

I said: Be humane.

I growled it really, and then he listened, took a more tender turn, straightened the bum’s coat for him. I think it was my voice that did it. Lately I’ve noticed it’s as deep as a man’s. All those years under the train tracks, yelling at the folks in my line just to be heard. I know I’m all woman. But I’ll just catch myself here and there, and I’ll forget it’s me talking. It’s good to have this voice on the streets though. It’s good to feel tough. I gotta be at my boldest on the streets.

Walked a young fella with a limp to the flophouse on the corner. Said his name was Winky, and that gave me a laugh. I should write down all these bum names I hear sometime. It’d be quite a list.

William showed up today just long enough to filch some money off me at the cage. His coat was so worn it was barely more than buttons and some loose threads. He wandered off down the street whistling. Well at least he’s happy enough to whistle.

Ambulance tonight for Winky. He showed me his ankle and it was a blue so pale it was nearly gray and swollen, and a little green around the toes.

He said: I don’t want to go to Bellevue.

I said: You gotta.

He said: Come visit me, promise you will.

I said I would but I won’t. I’m only good on the streets.

18 Mott Street, heart of Chinatown, blocks away from the theater so that’s fine by me. Seems like a crazy move, crazier than usual. I don’t know why Rosie thinks it will be any better here but she says she doesn’t mind the noise as much when she can’t understand what anyone’s saying. It’s a new building, across the street from one of our own, and we’ve got the top floor all to ourselves. I give her a month till she gets sick of the smell of food different than her own. She promises she won’t. Says she loves chow mein, could eat it all day. I know my Rosie though. She’ll get her fill.

Saw an old fella stealing another’s suitcase. First bum was too drunk to notice it was gone, the second fella was too drunk to run with it. Then he banged into a wall. He dropped it and the clasp flopped open. All that was in it was old clothes, and they fell in a pile, stink rising. Then a moth flew out.

I rapped him with my walking stick.

I said: This is your comrade. Don’t steal his possessions.

He said: Ain’t nobody my friend on the streets.

I pushed my walking stick farther into him.

I said: If you don’t have any friends, then all you got is enemies.

I made him pick up the clothes and give the suitcase back. First fella didn’t wake up the entire time.

Second fella spit at my feet and I told him to scram. I whacked him in the leg before he left. Wish I’d whacked him harder. All I’m doing right now is sitting here and wishing I’d left a mark and hating myself for feeling that way, too.

Two ambulances this week, got twelve fellas beds for the night, and paid one hospital bill. Also I bought a big box of hotel soaps for the dirtiest of these bums. I figured I should carry them with me wherever I go. If I give it to them, I know they’ll use it. Clean up the filth, one bum at a time.

Winky’s foot is gone, and they gave him some crutches and that’s it. I gave him everything in my pocket.

I said: What’ll we do with you, Winky?

He said: At least it’s getting warm again, Miss Mazie. At least there’s that.

I sat next to him for a spell on the bench. I asked him why they called him Winky and he told me it was short for Winklemans. I said that I used to know some Winklemans on Grand Street when I was growing up and he told me they were his cousins, that he’d come to visit from Philadelphia and never left and he’d had work, and then he hadn’t had work, and neither had his cousins, and then he was too ashamed to go home, and then all of this had happened, and he smelled like rot, and his foot was rot, and his gut was rot, and it was more shame on top of shame. I asked him if he’d rather rot out of pride on a bench or swallow it all and go home. He said he was worried if they’d even want him like this, not being able to earn his keep. I asked him if he had a mother and if she loved him and he answered that yes, he did, and I told him that she’d love him no matter what shape he was in, and this story ends with me hailing a taxi and taking him to Grand Central Station and buying him a train ticket home, and him thanking me and then crying and waving good-bye to me from the window as the train left the station, one of his crutches resting up against the window.

One ambulance last night. And he didn’t even last till they got there. His hand in mine. The stench in the heat already rising, like dirt, like animal, like shit. And I smelled it on me all today.

I can’t tell if it’s making me feel better or worse anymore, writing all of this down. It’s like I have to live through it one more time when I’d rather just forget at the end of the night.

This morning, at the table, I’m eating, she’s pushing the eggs around with the fork, and I can hear the fork scraping against the plate, that tinny sound in my ear.

I said: What?

She said: Nothing.

I said: Say it.

She said: The smell.

I said: I don’t smell a goddamn thing.

There’s an artist named Ray who’s been trading me sketches for change for weeks now. All he does is draw the Brooklyn Bridge, but I don’t say a peep. They’re beautiful anyway. He tells me he’s selling me the Brooklyn Bridge and we both have a laugh. I put one of them up in the cage, next to all the postcards.

Last night I saw him in an alley. I’d thought he was just broke, not on the streets. He told me his lady had left him and time had run out on his rent. A friend came over and gave him a few bills for what he had left, some books, some art. The rest he’d sold a long time ago, or it was garbage anyway. He blamed himself for everything.

He said: I don’t need to be down on my luck. I choose to be here. I’ve lost the fight. I’m no good at the other thing.

I said: What other thing?

He said: You know, life.

He’s handsome, this Ray. He’s long-legged, and his suit fits him well. He has a stylish bowler he wears and his blond curls flop around his ears. His face is long and drawn but a week or two of good eating and he’d be gorgeous again.

He pulled out his notebook and offered to trade another drawing for some change.

I told him he didn’t need to sell his work to me any longer, that I’d give him change no matter what.

I said: I see how thirsty you are.

He said: I’m no beggar. I’m an artist.

He took his hat off and held it to his heart and focused all his attention upon me where I stood and I nearly desired him.

And then he said: But I am indeed thirsty.

So I took the drawing and he took the change and I put it where I’ve put all the rest of them. In the pages of this diary.

I had all the Brooklyn Bridge sketches individually framed. There’s twenty-two in all. I couldn’t help myself. I hung them in my shop and I get so many compliments on them. A wall of nearly identical Brooklyn Bridges, signed by one Ray Frieburg. I looked him up. He was nobody special.

Thirty-four. I took myself shopping on Division Street. I bought dresses, three of them, one violet and two blue ones, all in deep jewel tones, all of them silk. I looked real sharp in all of them. Afterward I walked along the Bowery and felt bad, indulgent and spoiled, because so many people are suffering on the streets. But then I felt fine when I got back to work because I need to feel pretty, even if no one can see what I’m wearing in that cage all day. I need it. Me. Mine.

I showed Rosie the dresses when I got home tonight and she touched the fabric, looked closely at the seams, held the violet one up against her in the mirror. She declared them immaculate and stylish and the best quality. She grew sad for a moment, and said she wished she could fit in a dress with such a small waist.

She’s become a big woman, it’s true. In particular her arms are enormous, like an ape’s arms. She’s on that downward slope toward being an old woman. Her hair is nearly all gray, battle lines drawn around her lips. Just last week I suggested ever so gently she dye her hair.

She said: For who?

And I said: For you.