Read Online In the City of Shy Hunters by Tom Spanbauer - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Tom Spanbauer
Ads: Link
Alessandro pointed out. The killdeer plays a broken-wing trick on you, so youâll follow her as she moves away from her nest. She leads you away from what you really want. Then, after sheâs betrayed you, the killdeer bird leaves you alone in the middle of the desert in the twilight, she abandons you to what youâve been looking for all your life. Yourself.
But thereâs no fooling the gods. The whole time the gods knew. My only intent, the only thing on my mind, the only reason I moved to New York City, was to find Charlie 2Moons. I looked in every face I came across for the liarâs space between his teeth, Charlieâs deep-set eyes, his wavy black hair, the scar. In the subways, in elevators, on the bus, on the bar stool next to me, at the café counter, in the toilets, I smelled for him.
Then at the end, when the shit was hitting the fan, after I hadnât eaten or slept for days and everybody in Wolf Swamp was either in the hospital or the loony bin or dead, there was a moment, just before the Dog Shit Park War, there was a moment I ended up forgetting about Charlie 2Moons.
It was only then, just like True Shot said, that I found him. Not the way I thought Iâd find him, but I found him.
I mean, he found me.
* * *
NO ONE CAN tell this story the way I know it but me. Itâs the responsibility of the survivor to tell the story.
The first thing I did at 205 East Fifth Street, I -A, was to open all the windows and turn the oscillating fan on high. I was down to boxer shorts and crotch rash, praying for a breeze. Alone and counting every penny.
I was creating a center with sweat equity: my home, the ex-cat palace. Cat-shit carpet, cat-sprayed walls, cat-litter bathroom, piss kitchen. Elbow grease, a new broom and mop, roach motels, Pine-Sol, and a box of Brillo. I was on my hands and knees.
Ruby was right: August and September in New York, everybody but the criminals are in Connecticut.
August and September, the way things go when you get home from a job interview with your suit pants stuck up your ass.
I was two hours standing in line at Con Ed. No Charlie 2Moons. Two hours standing in line at NYT&T. No Charlie 2Moons. One-hundred-dollar deposit for a red touch-tone phone. I was digging deep down in my pockets and my pockets werenât deep.
Sabrett sausages with sauerkraut and onions and mustard and ketchup. I stole cans of tuna fish from the A&P.
My résumé of northwest restaurants Iâd worked in made me look like I knew what I was doing.
But itâs not the truth.
I was from from Idaho and I was New York City fucking roadkill.
The Wine Bar was my first try. I chose the Wine Bar because of Vin et Vous, the correspondence course on fine wines I took in Jackson Hole.
I wore my gray sharkskin suit, a thin black tie, and a white shirt with a tab collar you snap under the tie. Polished my high-top grandpa shoes. Slicked my hair backâwent through three whole tubes of mousse before I finally got a jobâdumped my socks and underwear out of the old suitcase with the travel stickers on it, and put the red plastic see-through folder with my résumé of restaurants in the suitcase. On the corner of Second Avenue and St. Markâs Place, I bought a New York City map at Gem Spa, a store that sold a drink called Egg Cream that had nothing to do with eggs or cream.
SoHo. So uth of Ho uston.
The Wine Bar was busy. The maître dâhôtel, a beautiful man with black hair and olive skin, wearing a coke-bottle-green silk shirt, pleated black pants, and shoes with leather the color of Kraft caramels, asked me how many in my party.
Iâm lunching alone, I said, and wondered if lunching was a word.
The beautiful maître dâhôtel looked down at my suitcase with the travel stickers on it and sat me in the corner.
No Charlie 2Moons, but I wasnât looking.
The busboy brought the French bread and I cleared my palate with the French bread. Ordered a
But thereâs no fooling the gods. The whole time the gods knew. My only intent, the only thing on my mind, the only reason I moved to New York City, was to find Charlie 2Moons. I looked in every face I came across for the liarâs space between his teeth, Charlieâs deep-set eyes, his wavy black hair, the scar. In the subways, in elevators, on the bus, on the bar stool next to me, at the café counter, in the toilets, I smelled for him.
Then at the end, when the shit was hitting the fan, after I hadnât eaten or slept for days and everybody in Wolf Swamp was either in the hospital or the loony bin or dead, there was a moment, just before the Dog Shit Park War, there was a moment I ended up forgetting about Charlie 2Moons.
It was only then, just like True Shot said, that I found him. Not the way I thought Iâd find him, but I found him.
I mean, he found me.
* * *
NO ONE CAN tell this story the way I know it but me. Itâs the responsibility of the survivor to tell the story.
The first thing I did at 205 East Fifth Street, I -A, was to open all the windows and turn the oscillating fan on high. I was down to boxer shorts and crotch rash, praying for a breeze. Alone and counting every penny.
I was creating a center with sweat equity: my home, the ex-cat palace. Cat-shit carpet, cat-sprayed walls, cat-litter bathroom, piss kitchen. Elbow grease, a new broom and mop, roach motels, Pine-Sol, and a box of Brillo. I was on my hands and knees.
Ruby was right: August and September in New York, everybody but the criminals are in Connecticut.
August and September, the way things go when you get home from a job interview with your suit pants stuck up your ass.
I was two hours standing in line at Con Ed. No Charlie 2Moons. Two hours standing in line at NYT&T. No Charlie 2Moons. One-hundred-dollar deposit for a red touch-tone phone. I was digging deep down in my pockets and my pockets werenât deep.
Sabrett sausages with sauerkraut and onions and mustard and ketchup. I stole cans of tuna fish from the A&P.
My résumé of northwest restaurants Iâd worked in made me look like I knew what I was doing.
But itâs not the truth.
I was from from Idaho and I was New York City fucking roadkill.
The Wine Bar was my first try. I chose the Wine Bar because of Vin et Vous, the correspondence course on fine wines I took in Jackson Hole.
I wore my gray sharkskin suit, a thin black tie, and a white shirt with a tab collar you snap under the tie. Polished my high-top grandpa shoes. Slicked my hair backâwent through three whole tubes of mousse before I finally got a jobâdumped my socks and underwear out of the old suitcase with the travel stickers on it, and put the red plastic see-through folder with my résumé of restaurants in the suitcase. On the corner of Second Avenue and St. Markâs Place, I bought a New York City map at Gem Spa, a store that sold a drink called Egg Cream that had nothing to do with eggs or cream.
SoHo. So uth of Ho uston.
The Wine Bar was busy. The maître dâhôtel, a beautiful man with black hair and olive skin, wearing a coke-bottle-green silk shirt, pleated black pants, and shoes with leather the color of Kraft caramels, asked me how many in my party.
Iâm lunching alone, I said, and wondered if lunching was a word.
The beautiful maître dâhôtel looked down at my suitcase with the travel stickers on it and sat me in the corner.
No Charlie 2Moons, but I wasnât looking.
The busboy brought the French bread and I cleared my palate with the French bread. Ordered a
Similar Books
