Not having this story published is something I am very thankful for — even though I tried to trick editors into taking it for a while. It is one of the first pieces of fiction I wrote, if we don’t count my time as a journalist. Maybe the second or third thing I would call a “story.”
It has been in a Google Docs drawer for about three and a half years. I sent it to a few uninterested lit mags and finally did trick an editor into accepting it. I was desperate to get this garbage published back in the olden days. 2008. I needed validation that fiction was something I could pursue. Thankfully, this lit mag sort of ceased to exist before the story was published, even though the website’s corpse is still on display, if you’re into that sort of thing.
There’s something in this story that I still like, some idea that is important to me and that I still write about all the time, but reading it again made me wince every few paragraphs. Who am I kidding? Every sentence made me wince.
While subjecting myself to it again I realized how much my writing has changed in the past three years. I no longer lean on narrative and exposition, or endings with shiny moral ribbons. In fact, now, I kill all of that at every opportunity. I hope that in another three years I look back at what I wrote in 2011 with the same disgust. Some people might not need three years to feel that way about my writing.
The link between then and now is that the process I went through in writing this story is very much the same. I just execute differently. I take a lot of notes about things I see or hear on the subway or in the city or anywhere that spark ideas and I let them go wherever they take me and piece them together however they best seem to fit.
Much of the writing in my collection, Steal Me for Your Stories, which Tiny Hardcore Press is publishing in January, has similar origins, although I don’t think any of it resembles this story. And reading it again makes me wonder why anyone would allow me to have a book.
I attribute the change in my writing to unlearning a lot what my journalism career had engrained in me. More than a lot. Almost all of it. The unlearning happened thanks to butt-numbing ass-in-chair time and studying with the most transformative, honest, brutal and caring teacher I have ever had, Gordon Lish.
Lish would probably ask me what the hell I was thinking by allowing anyone to read this piece of crap. I can hear him yell, “Keep it in your pants, Robb! Keep it in your pants until you’re ready to wow them all!”
I don’t know what I’d say to that other than I am not afraid to fail or be made a fool of. I do both of those things all the time. There’s value in that.
+
Someone was blowing a harmonica at the far end of the subway car. It wasn’t a song, more like random puffs and trills. Coins were rattling in a paper cup.
Charles was trying to read an article in the Wall Street Journal about disaster economics. It explained how to profit from things like hurricanes, terrorists, and salmonella outbreaks at Burger King.
The irritating noise came closer to Charles and his freshly pressed suit and slicked-back hair. He glanced over his paper and saw a beggar with a harmonica walking toward him, then glanced at the slender, caramel-skinned woman next to him. He smiled at her, and she smiled back before turning to her iPod and flicking through a few Reggaeton songs. He heard the beat blast from her earbuds.
Charles had a nice angle into her blouse. She had big breasts and her blouse had come unbuttoned a little too low. She was wearing a bra, but Charles thought he could see a bit of her areola. He concentrated hard and tried to make the nipple pop out with the sheer power of his mind. He evaluated her bosom, observed her breastial physics, and deduced that they were natural. He was impressed. They had a nice ripple when the train jerked to a stop. Plastic surgeons have yet to duplicate that. She was wearing designer jeans and high heels. Her French-manicured nails were long and probably fake. She wore a diamond bracelet and wraparound Gucci sunglasses. Charles stared at her breasts as they jiggled with the swaying, halting train.
A sharp note from the harmonica broke his gaze. He looked up and was startled when he got a better look at the beggar limping toward him. He only had one arm, and he had been badly burned. His face and arm were blanketed with scars where fire licked his skin.
Charles read recently that record numbers of soldiers were coming home from the war without arms and legs. He researched companies that develop prosthetics and invested as much as he could. He considered it an act of patriotism, and his portfolio was up sixteen percent despite the terrible economy.
The woman next to him reached into her large, black leather bag and pulled out a long plastic sleeve of Oreos. She removed one and held it between thumb and index finger like she was having high tea, her pinky pointing toward the ceiling. It was 7:30 in the morning. Charles watched as crumbs fell into her cleavage.
The one-armed man rattled his cup of change. He was wearing a dirty Che Guevara T-shirt. Che’s hat had a Nike swoosh. The man’s right sleeve hung like a curtain over what Charles imagined was a gruesome nub. The man gripped both the harmonica and cup of change with the fingers of his only hand and played a few more wobbly notes as he got closer to Charles.
The woman plopped the last bit of Oreo into her mouth. It took her four bites to finish the cookie. Charles hadn’t had an Oreo since he was child, but even then it only took him one bite. The woman fished a dollar from her purse, and dropped it in the beggar’s cup. Charles never gave change to bums, especially on the subway. He avoided the subway as much as possible, but it was raining and getting a cab was harder than getting in on the Google IPO. The floor of the subway car was slick with water and muddy footprints.
This one-armed man is breaking the law, Charles thought, but maybe I should lend a hand. He’s not simply begging for money, he’s performing, however poorly, for people on their morning commute. And the woman was watching him to see what he’d do. Charles set down his newspaper and dug in his pockets, over his keys and under his BlackBerry, looking for some change. Nothing. He pulled out his wallet to give him a dollar. The one-armed man stopped playing, and dangled his cup in front of Charles.
The woman took another small bite of a new Oreo and watched as Charles fanned through the cash, a couple hundreds, a fifty, and eight or nine twenties, but no singles. Unbelievable, Charles thought. He always had at least a few singles.
Charles was going to tell the man sorry, no ones, but glanced at the woman as she popped off one side of the Oreo off and slowly licked the icing. Charles watched intently, then looked at the man’s scarred face. The one-armed man didn’t have any eyebrows or eyelashes.
Charles thumbed through the money again, slowly, bill by bill, as the one-armed man watched. No luck. Charles didn’t know what to do. After all, he wasn’t going to give the guy twenty bucks. That’s one glass of 2006 Copain Pinot Noir for his date that night at Per Se. He’d waited three weeks for the reservation, and was determined to get in her pants even if dinner cost him a thousand dollars. But it wouldn’t. She was a model and didn’t eat much.
Other passengers were watching Charles now, as if he was doing something wrong, breaking some unspoken agreement. He sensed their glares as he looked at the one-armed man’s dangling, useless sleeve.
The man rattled his cup again, then blew into his harmonica like a cabbie honking his horn in traffic. More heads turned to see what was going on. Charles looked at the woman next to him as she finished another Oreo, crumpled the plastic sleeve, and slid it back in her bag. She grabbed the collar of her blouse with both hands and shook it, flinging crumbs on the floor and onto Charles’s lap, her breasts getting a little more room to breathe. Charles was watching and was certain he saw a flash of nipple. She realized her blouse was unbuttoned too far, turned toward Charles and scowled, as if he had done this to her. He thought maybe he had.
Charles looked away, focusing on the money in his wallet. He went through the cash again, even more slowly. There had to be a one in there somewhere, he thought. He pulled the money out of his wallet and fanned it like a magician performing a trick with a deck of cards. He shuffled through it, and looked into the eyes of Benjamin Franklin, Ulysses S. Grant, and Andrew Jackson, hoping the one-armed man, the woman, and the other passengers would see that he didn’t have any singles.
The one-armed man looked at the money, then at the woman, then at Charles as he twisted each bill between his thumb and finger to be sure they weren’t sticking together. Still nothing. He put the money back in his wallet.
Even without any eyebrows, the one-armed man’s scowl was obvious after watching Charles shuffle through the thick stack of cash for the third time.
“I’m sorry,” Charles said, turning his palms toward the ceiling with a shrug. “I just don’t have anything small enough to give.”
But the one-armed man didn’t walk away, he just stared at Charles, who surveyed the angry faces of the other passengers. The woman next to him sucked her teeth and rolled her eyes.
“You’re a greedy, insensitive pervert,” she said.
“Excuse me?” Charles said.
“You heard me. Greedy! Pervert! I saw you looking down my blouse. And then you have the audacity to put all that money in this poor man’s face and not help him out? You’re a damn fool!”
Charles was furious. He opened his wallet wide with both hands and held it up to the one-armed man’s eyelash-less, eyebrow-less eyes, so he could see for himself. Then he turned it toward the woman and yelled, “No ones!”
The one-armed man kept staring at him, then slowly raised his cup into Charles’s face and rattled the change as loudly as he could. He blasted his harmonica and Charles lost it. He shoved the man’s arm away, knocking the cup and the harmonica to the slick, dirty floor. The change clattered and rolled at their feet in wobbly circles, round and round until the coins fell flat. The one-armed man stood there and stared at Charles.
“How dare you touch him!” the woman said. She knelt down, picked up the harmonica, and handed it to the one-armed man. He put it in his mouth, leaned into Charles’s face, and blew as hard as he could. The sound pierced the rumble of the subway. Spittle shot from the back of the harmonica and splattered on Charles’s cheeks.
“Excuse me, sir!” Charles said as the one-armed man stepped on his foot. “Watch the shoes! I don’t have a dollar bill, okay? I’m sorry!”
The one-armed man leaned in again, his foot still on Charles’s shoe, and let loose another wailing cry on his harmonica, more saliva splattering against his face. “Back up, pal!” Charles said as he bolted up. He shoved the one-armed man as hard as he could, sending him backwards into the lap of another passenger. But the one-armed man shot right back up, surprisingly quick, Charles thought, for someone who had a limp just a minute ago.
The one-armed man stood nose to nose with Charles. He could feel the one-armed man’s breath on his face.
“Why don’t you get a job you filthy bu—”
But before Charles could finish, the one-armed man punched him. The fist was like a flying brick and dropped Charles to the muddy floor. He fell in a heap, surrounded by Oreo crumbs and grimy coins from the man’s paper cup.
Charles touched his lip, and the tip of his finger came away red. The one-armed man stood over him, his fist still clenched at his side, his arm flexing and trembling, veins thick.
The subway car was silent, except for the grating of the rails underneath them. Then the big-breasted woman started clapping. Others slowly joined in, filling the subway car with applause.
Hands shot out, waving money. The one-armed man put his harmonica in his mouth, thrust a triumphant fist in the air, and blew as hard as he could. His blues harp filled the car like the gale from an off-key hurricane. He collected the cash, well over forty dollars. He even got a few fives. He stuffed the money in his pockets and limped down the car, blowing a bent victory tune.
“He assaulted me!” Charles said. “Why are you people giving him money? You’re all sick!” He stood up and wiped his lip with an embroidered handkerchief from his breast pocket. His suit was covered in mud.
“You’re the sick one,” the woman said. A passenger shouted, “Yeah!” as others nodded.
As the one-armed man walked away with pockets full of money, Charles examined the outlines of his filthy Che T-shirt to see if an arm was hidden, perhaps taped behind his back. He thought he saw a thick curve, like the bend of elbow. Charles, who played lacrosse in college, ran toward the one-armed man as fast as he could and tackled him from behind. They crashed to the floor. Charles pulled the man’s shirt up and yelled, “He’s got both arms! Look! He’s got both arms!” But all he revealed was a horribly scarred back, melted dark swirls and thick streaks of flesh, as if someone had taken a flaming brush to his waxy skin.
The woman screamed, and ran to the one-armed man’s side. He was moaning under Charles’s weight. Charles looked around at the other passengers. They stood up and surrounded them.
“What kind of sick human being are you?” the woman said to Charles.
She helped the one-armed man to his feet. Charles’s wallet was on the floor next to the cup and harmonica. She bent over, her breasts nearly falling out of her blouse, and picked them up. She stuffed Charles’s wallet into the crumpled paper cup, and handed it all to the one-armed man.
Charles stared at the change in the muck on the floor, where he sat curled. His eyes were watering. He couldn’t bring himself to look up.
“I didn’t have anything small enough to give,” Charles said.
He was still staring at the floor when a dollar fell near one of his hands. Then one fell on his leg, then his head, then another and another. He looked up and saw the one-armed man, tears winding down the crags in his scarred face. He was pulling cash out of his pocket and letting bill after bill fall on Charles like leaves.
Nineteen ones floated down. The one-armed man flipped open the wallet, took out a twenty with his teeth, and tossed the wallet at Charles’s feet. Charles stared at the one-armed man. They both had tears in their eyes. The one-armed man took the twenty out of his mouth, stuffed it in his pocket, and limped down the train. He wheezed into his harmonica as if, at any moment, he would give the blues harp his very last breath.