coldly, blowing smoke upward toward the ceiling. It is an era when people still know how to smoke and eat at the same time.
“So why did you take those shirts?”
“You forgot to lock the door again, for starters. I took a pair of pants, too,” Ben says thoughtfully. “And a pair of shoes.”
He’s now madly grinning with self-love. Also, his speech has slowed down, an effect caused by the good life of cigarettes, food, and opiates. For him, heroin is to experience what salt is to rice. It makes it palatable.
“How come you took them?”
“ How come? I was on commission.”
“You were what ?”
“You’re funny when you pretend to be deaf.” Ben gazes up at the ceiling with merriment. His eyes mist over. Life is one long spree. He taps out ash on the coffee cup’s saucer, then rotates the cigarette’s tip on the china, a delicate gesture suitable for a dollhouse.
“On commission from whom?”
“ ‘Whom.’ I like that.” He shakes his head in admiration.
“You sure got yourself a good education somewhere.”
“Oh, fuck you, Ben.”
“Okay, there you go, fuck me,” Ben replies, rubbing his chin violently before lifting his eyebrows to express radical innocence in the line of questioning from this overeducated spoilsport. After taking one last long drag from his cigarette, he stubs it out on the saucer and exhales smoke through his teeth. He resumes foraging in the bottomless bowl of soup, t h e s ou l t h i e f
91
prolonging the moment to excruciation, a delay that evidently delights him, because he smirks. Now, with his left gloved hand, free of the cigarette, he lifts a piece of bread, taking a delicate bite. The bread has been slathered with butter, and butter affixes itself to his chin, giving him the look of a polished wooden marionette.
“Coolberg. It was Coolberg, right? He found you.”
The burglar shrugs. “A man’s gotta eat.”
“Which you’re doing. For free. It’s not as if you’re dining off your ill-gotten gains.”
“That’s right. I gave the ill-gotten gains to Luceel. My wife. You remember her. You let yourself meet her, which she didn’t want to do, with you. She didn’t like your looks. She didn’t want to make your acquaintance. Listen, I tell you what.” Ben straightens up. His comic momentum appears to have diminished. “So here I am, okay, right? Eating?” He talks and chews with his mouth open, exposing his nutri-tion. “So. Okay. So look around at my kingdom.”
Nathaniel involuntarily takes in the People’s Kitchen. Its sights and smells—the graying dust on the front windows, the vinegary odor of cooked food and gamy dirty clothing, the collection of cast-off benches and chairs on which the four other shabby diners sit, absorbing what nourishment they can, the cars on Allen Street rumbling by in a gray audible haze—the entire scene, he knows, should depress him with its overtones of despondency, what his stepfather used to refer to, smilingly, as miserabilium. Gray day, grayer mood. But no: he feels comforted and slightly elated to be here among scruffy outcasts. These are his people.
“So what’s your point?” Nathaniel asks.
“My point? My point? Listen, there’s gotta be a word for people like you, people who get off being around people like me. I’m just trying not to go down the drain here, man.
92
c h a r l e s b a x t e r
Maybe you haven’t noticed: my future ain’t what it used to be.”
He rubs at his chin. He is working himself up and shivers with agitation.
“You look at me. Okay, I got a habit. Also I got a pregnant wife, but we love each other, me and Luceel, and you come in here, asking me questions like I’m some award you got in the Good Deed Department. You sit there, college boy, pretending like I got a whole bunch of choices in life, a cookie jar full of cookies. You got a word for yourself, for what you are, you little shit, you slimeball educated fuck?” He says this quietly, with scary
“So why did you take those shirts?”
“You forgot to lock the door again, for starters. I took a pair of pants, too,” Ben says thoughtfully. “And a pair of shoes.”
He’s now madly grinning with self-love. Also, his speech has slowed down, an effect caused by the good life of cigarettes, food, and opiates. For him, heroin is to experience what salt is to rice. It makes it palatable.
“How come you took them?”
“ How come? I was on commission.”
“You were what ?”
“You’re funny when you pretend to be deaf.” Ben gazes up at the ceiling with merriment. His eyes mist over. Life is one long spree. He taps out ash on the coffee cup’s saucer, then rotates the cigarette’s tip on the china, a delicate gesture suitable for a dollhouse.
“On commission from whom?”
“ ‘Whom.’ I like that.” He shakes his head in admiration.
“You sure got yourself a good education somewhere.”
“Oh, fuck you, Ben.”
“Okay, there you go, fuck me,” Ben replies, rubbing his chin violently before lifting his eyebrows to express radical innocence in the line of questioning from this overeducated spoilsport. After taking one last long drag from his cigarette, he stubs it out on the saucer and exhales smoke through his teeth. He resumes foraging in the bottomless bowl of soup, t h e s ou l t h i e f
91
prolonging the moment to excruciation, a delay that evidently delights him, because he smirks. Now, with his left gloved hand, free of the cigarette, he lifts a piece of bread, taking a delicate bite. The bread has been slathered with butter, and butter affixes itself to his chin, giving him the look of a polished wooden marionette.
“Coolberg. It was Coolberg, right? He found you.”
The burglar shrugs. “A man’s gotta eat.”
“Which you’re doing. For free. It’s not as if you’re dining off your ill-gotten gains.”
“That’s right. I gave the ill-gotten gains to Luceel. My wife. You remember her. You let yourself meet her, which she didn’t want to do, with you. She didn’t like your looks. She didn’t want to make your acquaintance. Listen, I tell you what.” Ben straightens up. His comic momentum appears to have diminished. “So here I am, okay, right? Eating?” He talks and chews with his mouth open, exposing his nutri-tion. “So. Okay. So look around at my kingdom.”
Nathaniel involuntarily takes in the People’s Kitchen. Its sights and smells—the graying dust on the front windows, the vinegary odor of cooked food and gamy dirty clothing, the collection of cast-off benches and chairs on which the four other shabby diners sit, absorbing what nourishment they can, the cars on Allen Street rumbling by in a gray audible haze—the entire scene, he knows, should depress him with its overtones of despondency, what his stepfather used to refer to, smilingly, as miserabilium. Gray day, grayer mood. But no: he feels comforted and slightly elated to be here among scruffy outcasts. These are his people.
“So what’s your point?” Nathaniel asks.
“My point? My point? Listen, there’s gotta be a word for people like you, people who get off being around people like me. I’m just trying not to go down the drain here, man.
92
c h a r l e s b a x t e r
Maybe you haven’t noticed: my future ain’t what it used to be.”
He rubs at his chin. He is working himself up and shivers with agitation.
“You look at me. Okay, I got a habit. Also I got a pregnant wife, but we love each other, me and Luceel, and you come in here, asking me questions like I’m some award you got in the Good Deed Department. You sit there, college boy, pretending like I got a whole bunch of choices in life, a cookie jar full of cookies. You got a word for yourself, for what you are, you little shit, you slimeball educated fuck?” He says this quietly, with scary
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