years, came wafting skyward, dragging its ungodly chains and dread intestines after. The door exhaled open. The lift groaned as if we had trod its stomach. In a great protestation of ennui, the ghost sank back toward earth.
On the way John said, "If you hold your face right, the beggars won't bother you."
"My face," I explained patiently, "is my face. It's from Apple Dumpling, Wisconsin; Sarsaparilla, Maine. 'Kind to Dogs' is writ on my brow. Let the street be empty, then let me step forth and a strikers' march of freeloaders leap from manholes for miles around."
"If you could just learn to look over, around, or through those people, stare them down." John mused. "I've lived here for two years. Shall I show you how to handle them?"
"Show me!"
John flung the elevator door wide, and we advanced through the Royal Hibernian Hotel lobby to squint out at the sooty night.
"Jesus come and get me," I murmured. "There they are, their heads up, eyes on fire. They smell apple pie already."
"Meet me down by the bookstore," whispered John. "Watch."
"Wait!" I cried.
But he was out the door, down the steps and on the sidewalk.
I watched, nose pressed to the glass pane.
The beggars on one corner, the other, across from, in front of the hotel leaned toward my employer. Their eyes glowed.
John gazed calmly back at them.
The beggars hesitated, creaking, I was sure, in their shoes. Then their bones settled. Their mouths collapsed. Their eyes snuffed out. Huston stared hard. They looked away.
With a rap-rap like a drum, John's shoes marched briskly away. From behind me, in the Buttery, below, I heard music and laughter. I'll run down, I thought, slug in a quick one, and bravery resurgent . . .
Hell, I thought, and swung the door wide. The effect was as if someone had struck a great Mongolian bronze gong.
I heard shoe leather flinting the cobbles in sparks. The men came running, fireflies sprinkling the bricks under their hobnailed shoes. I saw hands waving. Mouths opened on smiles like old pianos. Someone shouted, "There's only a few of us left!"
Far down the street, at the bookshop, my director waited, his back turned. But that third eye in the back of his head must have caught the scene: Columbus greeted by Indians, Saint Francis amidst his squirrel friends, with a bag of nuts. Or he saw me as the Pope on Saint Peter's balcony, with a tumult below.
I was not half off the hotel steps when a woman in a gray shawl charged up, thrusting a wrapped bundle at me. "Ah, see the poor child!" she wailed. I stared at her baby. The baby stared back.
God in heaven, did or did not the thing wink at me? No, the babe's eyes are shut, I thought. She's filled it with gin to keep it warm for display.
My hands, my coins, blurred reaching out to her and the rest of her team.
"God thanks you, sir!"
I broke through them, running. Defeated, I could have scuffed slowly the rest of the way, my resolve so much putty in my mouth, but no, on I rushed, hearing a babe's wail down the cold wind. Blast! I thought, she's pinched it to make it weep and crack my soul!
John, without turning, saw my reflection in the bookshop window and nodded.
I stood getting my breath, brooding at my own image: my summer eyes, my ebullient and defenseless mouth. "Say it!" I sighed. "I hold my face wrong!" "I like the way you hold your face." John held my arm. "I wish I could do it too."
We looked back as the beggars strolled off in the blowing dark with my shillings. The street was empty now. It was starting to rain.
"Well," I said at last, "let me show you the even bigger mystery: the man who provokes me to wild rages, then calms me to delight. Solve him and you solve all the beggars that ever were."
"On O'Connell Bridge?" John guessed.
"On O'Connell Bridge," I said.
And we walked on down in the gently misting rain.
Halfway to the bridge, as we were examining some fine Irish crystal in a window, a woman with a shawl over her head plucked at my elbow.
"Destroyed!" The
On the way John said, "If you hold your face right, the beggars won't bother you."
"My face," I explained patiently, "is my face. It's from Apple Dumpling, Wisconsin; Sarsaparilla, Maine. 'Kind to Dogs' is writ on my brow. Let the street be empty, then let me step forth and a strikers' march of freeloaders leap from manholes for miles around."
"If you could just learn to look over, around, or through those people, stare them down." John mused. "I've lived here for two years. Shall I show you how to handle them?"
"Show me!"
John flung the elevator door wide, and we advanced through the Royal Hibernian Hotel lobby to squint out at the sooty night.
"Jesus come and get me," I murmured. "There they are, their heads up, eyes on fire. They smell apple pie already."
"Meet me down by the bookstore," whispered John. "Watch."
"Wait!" I cried.
But he was out the door, down the steps and on the sidewalk.
I watched, nose pressed to the glass pane.
The beggars on one corner, the other, across from, in front of the hotel leaned toward my employer. Their eyes glowed.
John gazed calmly back at them.
The beggars hesitated, creaking, I was sure, in their shoes. Then their bones settled. Their mouths collapsed. Their eyes snuffed out. Huston stared hard. They looked away.
With a rap-rap like a drum, John's shoes marched briskly away. From behind me, in the Buttery, below, I heard music and laughter. I'll run down, I thought, slug in a quick one, and bravery resurgent . . .
Hell, I thought, and swung the door wide. The effect was as if someone had struck a great Mongolian bronze gong.
I heard shoe leather flinting the cobbles in sparks. The men came running, fireflies sprinkling the bricks under their hobnailed shoes. I saw hands waving. Mouths opened on smiles like old pianos. Someone shouted, "There's only a few of us left!"
Far down the street, at the bookshop, my director waited, his back turned. But that third eye in the back of his head must have caught the scene: Columbus greeted by Indians, Saint Francis amidst his squirrel friends, with a bag of nuts. Or he saw me as the Pope on Saint Peter's balcony, with a tumult below.
I was not half off the hotel steps when a woman in a gray shawl charged up, thrusting a wrapped bundle at me. "Ah, see the poor child!" she wailed. I stared at her baby. The baby stared back.
God in heaven, did or did not the thing wink at me? No, the babe's eyes are shut, I thought. She's filled it with gin to keep it warm for display.
My hands, my coins, blurred reaching out to her and the rest of her team.
"God thanks you, sir!"
I broke through them, running. Defeated, I could have scuffed slowly the rest of the way, my resolve so much putty in my mouth, but no, on I rushed, hearing a babe's wail down the cold wind. Blast! I thought, she's pinched it to make it weep and crack my soul!
John, without turning, saw my reflection in the bookshop window and nodded.
I stood getting my breath, brooding at my own image: my summer eyes, my ebullient and defenseless mouth. "Say it!" I sighed. "I hold my face wrong!" "I like the way you hold your face." John held my arm. "I wish I could do it too."
We looked back as the beggars strolled off in the blowing dark with my shillings. The street was empty now. It was starting to rain.
"Well," I said at last, "let me show you the even bigger mystery: the man who provokes me to wild rages, then calms me to delight. Solve him and you solve all the beggars that ever were."
"On O'Connell Bridge?" John guessed.
"On O'Connell Bridge," I said.
And we walked on down in the gently misting rain.
Halfway to the bridge, as we were examining some fine Irish crystal in a window, a woman with a shawl over her head plucked at my elbow.
"Destroyed!" The
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