these were my parents, I broke my arm when I was twelve and Brian Hennerley tackled me when we were playing touch football, I first kissed a girl when I was fourteen, I remember she was ticklish . . . the rubble of the personal, the dust motes of the specific. Who cares who you are? the reflection asks, point-t h e s ou l t h i e f
87
ing at him. Every identity consists of a pile of moldering personal clichés given sentimental value by the fact that someone owns them. The fallacy of the unique! A rubbish heap of personal data, anybody’s autobiography. You can’t sell it or trade it. Besides, everyone has an autobiography, the principle of inflation thereby causing each one to be worthless.
Well, okay, the reflection admits, maybe some identities do shape up better than others thanks to the clothing of grace and good fortune. Of course, of course, of course, of course. Some identities are significantly richer than others, you’d have to be a fool to deny it. Better, more magnificent sins enacted on satin sheets in the penthouse, with music piped in through the floor grates along with the perfume, lend a certain robust glory to a man’s memory trove. Whereas some existences are empty dry sockets giving off the radia-tion of pain, victimization, mere shadows on the wall, dim bulbs, lethal vicissitudes, black holes in space, gigantic gravitational vacuums piloted by hungry ghosts . . .
Nathaniel finds that he is sweating again as these gigantic formless concepts tumble out of the window glass’s reflection into him, taking up mental occupancy. The unpleasantness of these ideas causes him to radiate a nervous malodorous sweat that he himself can smell and be offended by, and to remedy the smell of himself, he rushes to his closet to put on a clean shirt. He searches among the hangers and in the dresser drawers for the blue Brooks Brothers that his sister gave him, once upon a time, the one with thin rust-colored vertical stripes and a button-down collar, the shirt that always cheers him up, the wonder-working shirt. Wearing it makes him into a serious man, what they used to call a man of parts. Outside, snow has started to fall and is tapping against his bedroom’s window glass. The cardinal is no longer 88
c h a r l e s b a x t e r
chirping, his reflection has disappeared, and the shirt’s not here—it has gone conspicuously missing. The dresser drawer advertises its own emptiness. And what about the white shirt his stepfather gave him, the one tailored in Italy, the elegant Fratelli Moda? What about that one? That one isn’t here either.
Where did they go? Who would burglarize two shirts?
Where are my shirts?
16
At one of the tables in the dining area of the People’s Kitchen sits Ben the Burglar, alone, slurping his soup. He wears a red cap. He eats with his gloves on, spoon in his right hand, lit cigarette in his left. Today he sports a pair of old tortoiseshell glasses, a 1940s look, that of a chump in a downtown diner wearing a cheap disguise, behind which his junkie eyes peer at his fellow citizens. A bruise shines from the left side of his jaw. Deep film-noir shadows fall on him; blue smoke rises from his head. It is four o’clock in the afternoon, and Nathaniel sits down next to him uninvited.
“Whad I do this time?” Ben asks without looking up. He swallows, then takes a puff from the cigarette.
“I’m missing two shirts,” Nathaniel says. “I think you know where they are.”
“Would you let me finish?” Ben slows down the eating process, savoring each bite of potato, carrot, and stew meat.
Why hasn’t he taken off his gloves? He needs a gangster affectation.
“You broke into my place again. That was unfair.”
90
c h a r l e s b a x t e r
“So?” Ben smiles. “You didn’t mind when I did it before.”
Confessions of misdeeds apparently emerge easily from this hard-boiled guy. Like any tradesman, he takes pride in his work and in a job successfully accomplished. He smiles
87
ing at him. Every identity consists of a pile of moldering personal clichés given sentimental value by the fact that someone owns them. The fallacy of the unique! A rubbish heap of personal data, anybody’s autobiography. You can’t sell it or trade it. Besides, everyone has an autobiography, the principle of inflation thereby causing each one to be worthless.
Well, okay, the reflection admits, maybe some identities do shape up better than others thanks to the clothing of grace and good fortune. Of course, of course, of course, of course. Some identities are significantly richer than others, you’d have to be a fool to deny it. Better, more magnificent sins enacted on satin sheets in the penthouse, with music piped in through the floor grates along with the perfume, lend a certain robust glory to a man’s memory trove. Whereas some existences are empty dry sockets giving off the radia-tion of pain, victimization, mere shadows on the wall, dim bulbs, lethal vicissitudes, black holes in space, gigantic gravitational vacuums piloted by hungry ghosts . . .
Nathaniel finds that he is sweating again as these gigantic formless concepts tumble out of the window glass’s reflection into him, taking up mental occupancy. The unpleasantness of these ideas causes him to radiate a nervous malodorous sweat that he himself can smell and be offended by, and to remedy the smell of himself, he rushes to his closet to put on a clean shirt. He searches among the hangers and in the dresser drawers for the blue Brooks Brothers that his sister gave him, once upon a time, the one with thin rust-colored vertical stripes and a button-down collar, the shirt that always cheers him up, the wonder-working shirt. Wearing it makes him into a serious man, what they used to call a man of parts. Outside, snow has started to fall and is tapping against his bedroom’s window glass. The cardinal is no longer 88
c h a r l e s b a x t e r
chirping, his reflection has disappeared, and the shirt’s not here—it has gone conspicuously missing. The dresser drawer advertises its own emptiness. And what about the white shirt his stepfather gave him, the one tailored in Italy, the elegant Fratelli Moda? What about that one? That one isn’t here either.
Where did they go? Who would burglarize two shirts?
Where are my shirts?
16
At one of the tables in the dining area of the People’s Kitchen sits Ben the Burglar, alone, slurping his soup. He wears a red cap. He eats with his gloves on, spoon in his right hand, lit cigarette in his left. Today he sports a pair of old tortoiseshell glasses, a 1940s look, that of a chump in a downtown diner wearing a cheap disguise, behind which his junkie eyes peer at his fellow citizens. A bruise shines from the left side of his jaw. Deep film-noir shadows fall on him; blue smoke rises from his head. It is four o’clock in the afternoon, and Nathaniel sits down next to him uninvited.
“Whad I do this time?” Ben asks without looking up. He swallows, then takes a puff from the cigarette.
“I’m missing two shirts,” Nathaniel says. “I think you know where they are.”
“Would you let me finish?” Ben slows down the eating process, savoring each bite of potato, carrot, and stew meat.
Why hasn’t he taken off his gloves? He needs a gangster affectation.
“You broke into my place again. That was unfair.”
90
c h a r l e s b a x t e r
“So?” Ben smiles. “You didn’t mind when I did it before.”
Confessions of misdeeds apparently emerge easily from this hard-boiled guy. Like any tradesman, he takes pride in his work and in a job successfully accomplished. He smiles
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