Читать книгу Dukkha Unloaded - Loren W. Christensen - Страница 10

CHAPTER THREE

Louise pulled her hood tighter around her face so only her patched eye, her good eye, and her nose peeked out. She pressed herself back against the old brick building at Third and Couch in a feeble attempt to stay warm on this unusually crisp June morning.

Since the police cars and ambulance had left a couple of hours earlier—there had been a stabbing on the corner—she had been standing with her back to the wall watching the traffic volume change from sporadic to heavy. Seven blocks to the north, commuters exited off the Steel Bridge onto Third and, though the three-lane, one-way street had a speed limit of 25 MPH, nearly every motorist went at least 35 to get through skid row and on to the chrome and glass high-rise district on the south side of Burnside. Only the old timers still called it “skid row.” The modernettes, as she called them, called it “Old Town,” as more and more art galleries and unique eateries occupied the former flophouses and ass kickin’ taverns.

Ocnod’s death had shocked Louise, not because he had died but by the way he died. Death happened almost daily on skid row’s streets, and as a long time resident, she had seen a lot of it. Many of her friends had frozen to death or died of tuberculosis, but lots of others had died at the hands of another down-and-outer. Clara’s death was from a two-by-four smashed across her forehead; Wade and Johnny got it from knives; Ol’ Ed got himself pushed out the 6th-floor window of the Free Clinic; and Big Danny got himself shot to death. She witnessed that one. No, death wasn’t anything new to her, but ol’ Ocnod’s death was horrifying. Hung from a lamppost. She shook her head and tucked her gloved hands into her armpits.

Her eye watched a shiny black BMW pull to the curb. She frowned as the 30-something retrieved an electric razor from a leather attaché case and began moving it about his face.

“Hey, asshole!” she called out, rapping her gloved knuckles against his window. “Get the hell outta here! This ain’t no goddamn bathroom. This is my house you’re in.”

The man stared stupidly for a moment at the hooded personification of ugly death—broken teeth, sprouts of whiskers growing out of moles, and a patched eye. He tossed his shaver quickly into his briefcase, its blades still whirring, and goosed the car into heavy traffic, nearly clipping a passing Volvo.

“Way to go, Louise baby,” a gruff voice called from behind her. “You told Mister Pussy what it is.”

She turned and snapped a military salute at two winos huddled in a doorway a few feet away. The tall one was Abbot and the short, fat one, Costello. They stood side by side, shoulders hunched against the morning cool, trading swigs from a brown paper bag.

Louise resumed her position against the wall and sucked hard on the last of her cigarette. A few street people passed, some nodding a greeting at her. Some new faces lately, she thought. She alerted on an old black wino across the street, a longtime skid row regular everyone called The Mayor. It was hard to see him with all the cars and trucks stopped at the light, but as usual, he was drunk out of his mind long before most people had their morning coffee. His tattered, brown overcoat was unbuttoned, revealing blue sweat pants, brown slippers, and a bare, bony chest. Hanging onto the signpost with one hand, he leaned into the street and waved his other at a pretty, young brunette in a red Honda.

The traffic signal changed to green for southbound traffic, and the pedestrian signals flashed Don’t Walk for the east/west foot traffic. Oblivious to the signals, The Mayor let go of the post and staggered into the street, heading west toward Louise’s side.

Abbot and Costello, who had also been watching The Mayor, shuffled from their doorway post and shouted at him to get back to the sidewalk. Louise tried to shout but realized her voice was too feeble to be heard over the passing traffic. She shambled over and grabbed Abbott’s arm. “He’s gonna get his ass kilt,” she cried into his ear.

“Well, I sure ain’t goin’ out there to rescue his drunkness, Louise,” Abbott said, taking a quick pull of wine from the bag.

The Mayor somehow made it across the first lane, accompanied by a cacophony of blaring horns and screeching tires. Louise, Abbott, and Costello moved to the curb’s edge, the three of them gesturing madly for him not to move as he precariously straddled the yellow line. Louise mouthed silently, “Stay, stay, stay.”

Because of the heavy volume of traffic from the bridge ramp, the signal held green thirty seconds longer than most intersections, extra seconds that seemed like minutes to Louise, as cars and trucks streaked by, some swerving, some sounding their horns, but not one vehicle slowing even a little. The Mayor was fine with it, swaying as if dancing to the sound and the fury. He held open his overcoat, exposing his bare chest and shouting drunkenly, “Ole!” at the charging herd of steel bulls.

Anxious, Louise kept looking from The Mayor to the traffic signal, and back, all the while willing the light to change to red. A city bus passed slowly, blocking her view for what seemed like forever. When she finally could see him again, The Mayor was looking back toward the sidewalk from where he had begun. What was he looking at? Louise strained her one eye to see through the streaking traffic to the other side of the street. She could make out two young men, teenagers, both standing next to the No Parking sign. They look weird, she thought, wearing all black clothes and knee-high boots. Like … what do they call them? Punk Rockers, or something. One had long, impossibly black hair and the other had not-as-long impossibly yellow hair.

“What are they doing?” Louise asked aloud, watching in disbelief as the yellow-haired one motioned with his right hand for The Mayor to come back to the sidewalk, while holding up the middle finger of his left. The other waved his hands for The Mayor to continue to cross the other two lanes over to Louise’s side.

Desperate now, Louise said, “They’re confusing the old fool.” She started to step off the curb but an angry horn drove her back. “Hey, you dirty shits!” she yelled feebly. “What you think you doin’?” The light finally changed to amber. “Thank God,” she whispered.

Traffic in all four lanes accelerated to beat the light. A white delivery truck next to the curb slowed to make a turn, blocking her view. She hobbled sideways a couple of steps closer to Costello to see around it, but still it was in the way. Costello could see, though, and his eyes widened.

He shouted, but his words were drowned out by a riot of screeching tires and blaring horns from the other side of the truck.

The truck moved on and The Mayor was gone.

Off to the right, bluish-white smoke swirled around the tires of a blood-red Nissan sliding sideways into the intersection. Underneath, a human form tumbling. A flash of skin, a pajama-clad leg, a flap of brown coat. Something pinkish shot out from under a tire and bounced across the pavement toward Louise. The Nissan rocked to a stop.

At Louise’s feet: a broken denture plate.

Across the street, the teenagers walked quickly away slapping each other on the back.