Outside the hot dog stand, Jesús hesitated for a moment, looking around, shivering as he adjusted to the cold December air.  Across the Boulevard he saw Joey, walking slowly, near the Park entrance, his balloons a clear marker in the lamplight.  Quickly Jesús walked to the front door of the hotel, and marched through the lobby to the front desk.  The balding middle-aged desk clerk was painfully thin, with stringy, over-long hair partially hidden under the collar of an ill-fitting gold jacket.  On the pocket of the jacket, the name of the hotel was ostentatiously embroidered in purple thread.  “I want to see the manager.” said Jesús.

“May we ask the nature of your business with management, sir?” asked the desk clerk, pushing his bifocal glasses down on the end of his long, pointed nose. 

“I have a complaint.” said Jesús.

“May we be of assistance to you, sir?”

“It’s about this hot dog place you’ve got here on the end of your building.  Guy who runs it for you—rude as hell, by the way— just tried to cheat me.  Overcharged me—then tried to say I didn’t pay him.  Said he was going to call the police.”

“Sir, this establishment has nothing whatsoever to do with the gentleman to which you refer nor with the business of which you speak.  The fact that he and it are attached to these premises is a circumstance over which we have no control whatsoever.  — That is, for the present, anyway.  — Really, this kind of thing happens all the time.”

“But what am I supposed to do?” asked Jesús, talking rapidly to avoid interruption.  “The guy cheats me, and then calls the cops.  They’ll be here any minute.  Just what the hell am I supposed to do?”

“I doubt they’ll bother to come.” said the clerk.  “They usually don’t.  He calls them every day for one reason or another.  I’m certain they’ll just ignore it.  —   If you like, sir, I’ll call them and explain what happened.”

“Would you?” said Jesús.  “That would make me feel a lot better.”

“Certainly, sir.  Are you a guest of the hotel, sir?”

“No.” said Jesús, pointing vaguely.  “I’m staying down the street.”

“You’re with the firefighter’s convention then?”

Jesús thought a moment, then nodded, smiling.  “Yes, I’m a fireman.  How’d you know?”

“When you been in this business as long as I have, sir, well…” said the desk clerk, pleased with himself.  “It would sound so much better, sir, if I explained to them that another guest of this hotel has had a problem with that man.  — If you have no objections, sir?  — We have a standing complaint with the police.  We’re trying to build up a file and take him to court.  We’ll have him deported if we can.”

“Be my guest.” said Jesús conspiratorially.  “People like that—they don’t belong here.”

“Exactly.” said the man.  “Don’t worry, sir.  I’ll take care of this little problem in a jiffy.”

“I need to make a phone call myself.” said Jesús.  “Is there a phone here I could use?”

“Certainly, sir.  There’s a house phone in the smoking area of the men’s room.  Around the corner, past the elevators, second door on the right, sir.  Dial “nine” for an outside line.”

The restroom was empty when Jesús entered.  He smiled, then laughed aloud to himself.  “Fireman?” he chuckled.  “Do I look like a fireman?”

The telephone was on a large table in a corner of the smoking area, surrounded by several ashtrays.  Jesús sat down on the arm of an overstuffed leather chair.  He fumbled a moment, then dialed a number from memory, but the line was busy.  “Call back in a minute.” he said.

In his mind and imagination, Jesus sees himself leap over the counter at the hot dog stand and grab Frank by the throat.  Quickly he pulls a large knife from his jacket pocket and stabs Frank several times in his fat belly.  Frank falls to the floor behind the counter, writhing in pain.  The boy smiles at Jesus and comes around the counter to kick at the fallen man.  Together, Jesus and the boy kick the man until he ceases to move.

Jesús entered a bathroom adjacent to the smoking area, found a stall, lowered his jeans, and squatted on a stool.  The walls of the stall were scratched and marked and covered with graffiti.  Most were homosexual solicitations—simple statements of date, time, and preference.  Some included a telephone or room number.  One bit of writing, larger than the rest, said “I WANT TO WATCH YOU FUCK MY WIFE.  CALL HARRY AT 234-4487.”

Jesús read all the messages, then reached into his left breast work shirt pocket for a well-worn New Testament Bible that he kept there.  There was the flat stub of a carpenter’s pencil in the center, dividing the book of John near the third chapter.  Jesús opened the Bible, which had been pierced through the middle so that each page had a small hole in it, and wrote down a telephone number.  He finished, pulled up his pants, and left the stall.  Again, he fumbled with the phone, dialing a number from memory.  The line rang for a long time.  “Shit.” said Jesús softly, hanging up, thinking for a moment, then quickly dialing the number written in the Bible.

“Hello.” answered a female voice.

“Hello.” said Jesús.  “May I speak to your husband please?”

“I think you have the wrong number.” said the woman.

“Your husband isn’t home?”

“Sorry, wrong number.” said the woman, insistently.

 “Hold it, don’t hang up.  You don’t have a husband, is that it?”

Silence.

“Hold it now.  Is Harry there?”

“Listen, I don’t know who you guys are.” said the woman angrily.  “But you better quit calling me.”

Jesús spoke quickly.  “Somebody gave me this number and said my old friend Harry lives there.”

“Nobody lives here but me.  I used to know a guy named Harry, but…”

“But what?”

“He’s dead.”

“Not quite.” said Jesús.

“What?”

“Not quite dead.”

“I saw him.  I went to the funeral.  He was dead.”

“I think the last piece of Harry didn’t die until tonight.”

“You’re strange.” said the woman.

“You’re alone.” said Jesús, unsympathetically.

Silence.

“On a Saturday night.  – A week before Christmas.”

Silence.

“You want some company?  – You want me to come over there and…”

“You guys better quit calling here.” yelled the woman, slamming down the receiver.

“We just did.” said Jesús, laughing softly, talking to the dial tone.

Jesús hung up the phone and went back to the bathroom.  With the stub of pencil, he obliterated the phone number in the Harry message.  “See you in hell, Harry, you dirty old bastard.” said Jesús.  “And I bet she’s a nice girl, too.”

Quickly Jesús drew the outline of a bird sitting on the branch of a tree.  Underneath the branch, he wrote “JAYBIRD WAS HERE”.

In the smoking area again, Jesús tried the number from memory once more.  The phone rang, but still there was no answer.  Quickly he left the restroom and, in the hallway, bought a pack of cigarettes from the vending machine between the elevators.  He walked back to the lobby and up to the front desk.

“I spoke to the desk sergeant, sir.” said the front desk clerk, obviously anxious to give his report.  “We were right.  He said not to worry.  He had no intention of wasting an officer on that call anyway.”  

“I have another complaint.” said Jesús.

“Sir?”

“The writing on the wall in the men’s room.  Disgusting!”

“Sir, we’ve tried everything.  We’re so sorry, sir, but there’s so little we can do about that situation.”

Jesús walked toward the front door.  “Disgusting.” he repeated.

The desk clerk shook his head sorrowfully.

“And it’s not true either.” said Jesús, over his shoulder to the puzzled clerk.

Outside, Jesús carelessly jaywalked across the Boulevard, forcing one car to come to a complete stop.  “Asshole.” said the driver, but Jesús stared the man down.

On the other side of the street, Jesús saw Joey’s balloons just inside the main entrance to the Park.  The old man was still there, staring mournfully at a young couple pushing a baby stroller.  Jesús stopped to watch, but Joey made no effort, other than his steady stare, to sell a balloon to the couple.  Gradually the pair wandered out of the Park and down the sidewalk away from the Courthouse toward the River.

Jesús sneaked up behind Joey.  “Get your balloons!” he yelled in a loud barker-type voice.  “Get your red-hot balloons right here, ladies and gentlemen!”

Joey looked around, startled by the noise.

“A balloon for the little one, ma’am?” continued Jesús.  “And you, sir, how about a balloon for your good lady?”

“Don’t like to talks to the people.” explained Joey.

“Get a goddamn sign then.” said Jesús helpfully.

“Didn’t paid him, did you?” said Joey, changing the subject.  “I knowed you wasn’t going to paid him.”

“Hell, no, I didn’t pay him.  He made me mad as hell the way he hit the kid.”

“Knowed you wasn’t going to paid him.” repeated Joey.

“So what.” snapped Jesús.  “Let the bastard worry about his money for one night.  I’ll pay him tomorrow.”

“Did he called the police?”

Jesús nodded.  “Sure he called them.  But he probably calls them if somebody doesn’t leave him a tip.  They’re not going to worry about that asshole getting ripped off for a couple of bucks.”

“Didn’t want to be in it.  So I leaved.  – Ain’t going back to jail no more—if can help it.”

“Bullshit.  Forget it, man.  Nobody is going back to jail.”  said Jesús hotly.  “I told you I’d pay the bastard tomorrow.  Now forget the money-grubber son-of-a-bitch, will you?”

Joey paused, thinking hard, then said teasingly.  “What’s you going to say to Rita when she gets here?”

“What?” said Jesús.

“I called Rita.  Told her you was back.  Told her she better gets over here quick before you gets gone again.”

“Bullshit.  You don’t have any money.  How did you call?”

“On the police’s phone.  Like you showed it to me and Rusty that one time.” said Joey, pointing to the call box on a pole near the front of the Park.  “I uses it all the time now when I gots to call somebody.”

“Bullshit.  You didn’t call.” said Jesús.  “What did she say?”

“Said not to bother her now.  Said she had to go to work.  But I told her where I was at.  – She comes to the Park on her way to work anyway.  Brings me a sandwich sometimes.”

“Where does she work?”

“At the big hotel.” said Joey, pointing back across the Boulevard.  “In the bar.  The one where that Preacher-man works.”

“Stupid bitch.” said Jesús hotly.  “Working for the Preacher.  The Preacher pimp!”

Jesús tore at the new pack of cigarettes from the hotel, took one out for himself, and automatically offered one to Joey.  Joey accepted it eagerly.  Jesús lit his cigarette, and offered the match to Joey.  But Joey declined and stuck the cigarette behind his ear.  “I’ll saves it for later to share it with Rusty.” he said softly.

Jesús took a long slow drag on his cigarette and moved over to a Park bench to sit down in the shadow of a young fruit tree.  Joey followed him slowly.  The Park, well-lit by dozens of electric-imitation-gaslight lamp posts, strung out along its snake-like curving brick pathways, seemed empty.  At once, there was a tapping noise and the sound of approaching footsteps.  Joey smiled as Jesús looked up hopefully, puffing nervously on his cigarette.  But the footsteps were too heavy and slow to be those of a young woman.  Jesús and Joey watched carefully as an old man approached the Park cautiously from behind the Courthouse, slowly negotiating the winding brick pathway with a red-tipped white cane.

“Goddamn.  I thought Old Cowboy was dead.” whispered Jesús.             

 “No.  He was gone.  But he’s back again now just like you is.” said Joey.

The Old Cowboy was a small gray old man, with unkempt gray hair and beard and a gray face.  His blind, blood-shot eyes were also a light color, perhaps gray.  He wore a soiled black cowboy suit, with white studs on the shirt and pants.  His misshapen black cowboy hat had been used as a pillow many times.  Around his thin waist he wore a child’s gun and holster set, with small plastic-pearl-handled revolvers on each hip.  On his sunken chest was pinned a bent and battered SHERIFF badge.  On his thin shoulders, he carried a piece of old black tarp for warmth. 

He tapped toward them, stopped, sniffed the air and snorted loudly, then nodded toward them and spoke, although the words were unintelligible.  Slowly he turned aside to a bench near the brick wall that separated the Park and Courthouse.  The bench once looked out over the Park to the River, but pranksters have turned it around and rebolted it down so that now it sat facing the brick wall.  The blind cowboy sat down tiredly, facing the brick wall, and the Courthouse—which, although half in light, half in shadow, shone brightly down upon him.  His knees rubbed against the wall, and with his cane he tapped at the bricks, as if checking to see if they were all still there.  With a deep sigh, the old man laid over on the bench, put his hat under his head for a pillow, spread the piece of tarp over his upper body, and without closing his blind eyes, slept.

“How long’s he been talking to people?” Jesús asked Joey quietly.

“Ain’t never heared him said nothing to nobody till tonight.” said Joey.  “What did he said anyway?”

“I don’t know.” said Jesús dreamily, as if he would drop off to sleep himself.  “Sounded like a song.  Or a prayer.  Something from a long time ago when I was a kid in church maybe.”

“Maybe was a Bible quote.” said Joey.  “Used to be lots of them.”

“Does Mister Charles still take care of him?” asked Jesús.

“Mister Charles still takes care of everybody.” whispered Joey.  “We should go away now so Cowboy can sleep.”

As Joey and Jesús moved away from Cowboy deeper into the park, they stopped in the shadows at the sound of another set of approaching footsteps—this time, the quick, light click of rapid high heels.  Joey moved toward the sound.  “Is that’s you, Rita?” he called out.

“Joey, what is it this time?” asked a woman in frustration, as she altered her course slightly and moved toward him.  “What kind of trouble are you in now?  – I told you not to call me anymore.  If I’ve got something for you, you’re easy enough to find.”

Jesús stood in the shadows, very still, looking at the ground.

Rita was a small woman, with short curly-red hair and large round glasses.  She was not as young or pretty as she once was.  She wore a tight turtleneck sweater and short skirt, and a leather vest that matched her shoulder bag and knee boots, under a short, furry coat that she has neglected to button.  “Here.” she said, tossing Joey a small white take-out bag.  “It’s leftovers from my supper.  Hope you don’t mind eating after me.  If I got the clap, I caught it from you.”

Joey stammered, embarrassed.  Jesús laughed out loud, and Rita saw him for the first time.  “Jesse?  So, it is true.  He did see you this time?”     

Jesús looked up from the ground.  “Hello, Rita.” he said.

“Okay—hello, Rita—is that it?” asked Rita, in a mocking tone.  “Well, ain’t this a surprise?  How long you back for this time, sport?”

“Rita, — I —” began Jesús.

“Thanks for all your letters—telling me where you were—when you’d be back—that you were all right—so I wouldn’t worry.”

“I tried to call…”

“When?” replied Rita hotly.

“As soon as I could get to a phone…tonight.”  said Jesús, the last word too soft to hear.

“What?” asked Rita, not waiting for his answer.  “So, how’s everything down south?  You left about this time last year—like the birds.  I figured you must have gone south for the winter.  What’d you come back for—Christmas?”

With each question, Rita had moved closer to Jesús, and now she stood next to him as if she would reach out and strike him with her fists.  Joey moved between Rita and Jesús, facing the woman.  “Now, come on.” he said.  “What kind of welcome home that is?”

Rita’s tone softened sarcastically.  “Oh, Joey, you’re right, of course.  My man’s done come home.  Oh, Lordy, I’m so grateful, Joey.  —But then I am on my way to work.  Neither one of you would know much about that, though, now would you?”

“Since when that Preacher man learned how to tell time?” asked Joey.  “He wouldn’t even know it if you was late, which you ain’t.”

Rita shrugged, calmer now, but said nothing.

“Don’t you has a minute to sit down and talks to your old friends?”  asked Joey, then added to Jesús.  “Don’t you has a cigarette for to offer to her?”

Rita moved to the closest park bench and sat down heavily, but crossed her legs as if she had nowhere to go.  “I got all the time in the world.  When are my friends going to get here?” 

Jesús followed Rita and sat on the opposite end of the bench, holding out the pack of cigarettes to her.  Joey sat down between them, and motioned to the cigarettes.  “I quit smoking.” said Rita, taking a cigarette.

Jesús quickly lit it for her. “Me, too.” said Joey, taking another cigarette and putting it behind his other ear.

“Me, three.” said Jesús, lighting another for himself.

Suddenly, Joey jerked upright, slapping himself on the forehead theatrically, shaking his head from side to side.  “Doggonit!”  he said.  “Almost forgotted.  Gots to go meet Rusty.  He’s going to help me sell balloons tonight.”

“But, Joey…” began Rita.

“Stay, Joey!” commanded Jesús.

“Gots to go.  Already too late.” said Joey, standing, straightening his balloons, and scurrying away toward the back of the Park.  “Be seeing you tomorrow, Jesus.  If you is still here, I mean.  I thanks you again for my suppers.

“Some cheap trick.” said Rita when Joey was gone, starting to stand up.  “How much did it cost for him to do the phone call for you?  A bottle, at least, I bet.”

“I didn’t tell him to do it.  I swear to God.” said Jesús.  “Crazy bastard did it all by himself.  I’m sorry—I tried to call.”

“Well, he’s done it before.” said Rita.

“When?”

“Lots of times.  Since you’ve been gone.  But you were never here.”

“Crazy bastard.  — Well, I’m here now.” said Jesús.

“You’re not here.  — You’re back.”

“That’s what I said.  I’m back here now.”

Rita paused, uncertain.

“This is where we left off, isn’t it?” said Jesús.  “The same argument we were having when I left?”   

“I’ve got to go to work.” said Rita finally.

Jesús looked directly at Rita for the first time.  Their eyes locked in a prolonged stare, until Rita looked away.  “Don’t look at me like that.” she said.  “It scares me.  — You scare me looking at me like that.”

“We need to talk, Rita.” said Jesús flatly, looking down again.  “I tried to call.  Honest I did.  As soon as I could, I mean.”

“I got nothing to say to you.  You ran away from me, remember?”

“I didn’t run away.  I was mad.  I got caught…I just needed a little more time, that’s all.”

“A little more time?  A year?” said Rita.  “Is that what you call a little more time?”

“I wasn’t going to stay so long.” said Jesús.  “But I got caught…  I got sidetracked.”

“A little more time for what?” repeated Rita.  “You’ve had all the time in the world.”

“I need to talk to you.  I can explain.” said Jesús, pleading softly.  He looked away, mumbling incoherently.

“What?” asked Rita sharply.

“Nothing.”

Rita spoke slowly.  “Listen, I don’t have time for this right now.  I got to go to work.”

“When?” asked Jesús.

“When what?”

“When will you have time?”

“I don’t know.  Maybe later.  — Come over and see me in a couple hours.  I tend bar with the Preacher.”

Jesús made a disgusted face.  “I know.” he said.

“It’s not what you think.” said Rita quickly.  “If you’d just listen sometimes.  I said I tend bar.  I work with the Preacher—not for him.”

Jesús shrugged.  “We need to talk.”  he said finally.

“I got to think about it.” said Rita, flipping aside her cigarette as she stepped quickly away, finally unable to resist the urge to run.

“All right, all right.” said Jesús softly to himself and to the dark.  “I’ll come.  — But you won’t like what I’m going to tell you.  — And I won’t like having to tell it to you either.”

Jesús sat alone, perfectly still, bent forward at the waist, elbows on knees, one hand pulling on his long moustache, the other hand holding a long dead cigarette in his lap.  He dropped the butt and ground it into the brick pathway with his boot heel.  His hand slid down from his moustache, making a fist on which to rest his chin.  He was seated, but tense, almost up on his toes.  Then, once again, Jesús looked down intently and studied the ground.

“Wish I owned a bar like this.” said Jim, finally breaking the long silence between him and the bartender.  “I could turn it into a goldmine.”

The big bartender smiled slightly, amused at the drunken salesman.  “How you going to do that, Mister Bailey?”

“Call me Jim.”

“Okay.  But you got to call me Preacher.  That’s what everybody around here calls me.”

Jim laughed.  “I wonder why?” he asked sarcastically.

Preacher smiled again, embarrassed.

“But not in a hotel.” Jim continued.  “Close to one would be good though.  A nice big bar like this.  Right down the street from a big hotel.  Lots of businessmen away from home.”

Jim winked at the barman.  “Get some girls to hustle drinks.  Couple of strippers.”

“Sounds like a good idea to me.” said Preacher, shaking his head from side to side, but no longer listening to Jim, thinking hard to himself.

“In town for long, Jim?” asked Preacher finally.

“Been here five days.  Going home tomorrow to the wife and kids.  — Been up in that goddamn room four nights.  Damn television’s about to drive me crazy.”

Over in the corner, the firemen laughed suddenly, louder than they had laughed before.  Hoots and catcalls forced a young red-haired man drunkenly to his feet.  He grabbed the three empty pitchers from the center of the table and staggered toward the bar.  All eyes at the table followed him.  “You lose, Red!” yelled one of his older companions.  “You got to buy the next round.”

“Fill her up.” said Red good-naturedly to the barman.  “I’ll wait.”  

 “That’s not necessary, sir.” said Preacher, with false courtesy.  “I’ll be happy to serve you gentlemen at your table.”

The young man paid and accepted his change, but continued to stand and wait for the pitchers.  The bartender drew three pitchers from the tap and placed them on a tray.  “I’ll carry them to your table, sir.” said Preacher again, smiling.  “If you spill them, you’d have to buy more.  But if I spill them, it won’t cost you anything to have them replaced.”

“Spill them?” asked Red suspiciously.

The young fireman followed the barman back to the corner, watching him closely.  Near the table, the bartender tripped slightly and started to lose his balance.  “Watch it, guys!” yelled Red in warning. “He’s going to dump it on you.”

The startled firemen pulled back from their table abruptly—one fell back over his chair—expecting the barman to drop the tray and send the pitchers crashing onto the table in front of them.  But the bartender caught himself and the tray easily, and set the pitchers down gracefully in the center of the table.  The barman turned to Red, laughing softly.  “Got you!” he said.

Quickly the other firemen joined in, as if they were in on the joke all the time.  Red blushed, but his blush rapidly turned to anger, and his knuckles popped as he balled up his hands into fists.  One of the older men reached up and grabbed his belt and jerked him down into an empty chair.  “And almost got the rest of you, too.” said Preacher.  “But then I said to myself—Preacher, that’d just be one more mess you’d have to clean up.”

The firemen fell silent.  Preacher stood a moment as if daring anyone to speak or move.  He started to speak again, but the phone behind the bar rang softly.  “Excuse me, gentlemen.” he said, instead of what he was going to say.

The bartender returned to the bar, answered the phone, and listened for a moment.  “Right away, sir.  I’ll send someone right up.”  he said, pushing down the button and quickly dialing another number. 

“404.” he said into the receiver.  “But be careful.  I don’t know this guy that well.  And you know what happened to Rita last night.”

Preacher hung up the phone quietly.

“Put up lots of mirrors.” said Jim, continuing to build his fantasy bar, ignoring the phone call and the incident at the corner table, watching himself in the big mirror behind the bar.  “Mirrors…and a big neon sign, ‘THE HOUSE OF MIRRORS—the most intimate and exciting nightclub in town’.  Big white letters on a black background.  You know, a house of mirrors where you could see yourself, and watch yourself, and know that you were really, really real.”

Preacher looked at Jim intently.  “That’s a lot of neon.” he said finally.  “And a lot of glass.  You know, there must be a half-dozen places like that over on the Block.  What does this world need with another one?”

“The Block?” asked Jim.

The bartender, distracted by the intense glare of Red from the corner table, mumbled, “Behind the Courthouse.  You ought to go over there if you want to be in that kind of place.”

“Just talking.” said Jim.  “Just looking for a little deal on the side.  I wouldn’t give up my job or anything.”

The barman, locked in an intense eye contact duel, muttered unsympathetically.  “Sure, sure.  Sorry, Mister Bailey.”

“Just looking for a little action on the sidelines.” said Jim.

Preacher smiled, suddenly alert, ignoring Red and focused on Jim.  “Why didn’t you say so?” he asked.  “You want a date for tonight then?”

“What?” asked Jim.

“Who told you about it?  Why didn’t you just say so?  You been talking my ear off all night long.  Why didn’t you just ask me?”

“Told me about what?” asked Jim.

“Nobody told you?”

After a long silence, the bartender continued.  “Sorry, Mister Bailey.  I got a little carried away there, I guess.  It’s just that I’ve got a little business on the side myself.  You see, I get dates for guys like you who don’t know any girls here in the City.”

Jim stiffened.  He finished his drink.  “That’s not very ethical, is it?” 

“Don’t take it personal.” said Preacher. “I didn’t mean it like that.”

Jim shook his head and began to gather his change, initially leaving several bills on the bar, but finally picking them up and putting them in the outside pocket of his suitcoat.

“If you change your mind, just give me a call here at the bar.  I’ll be here all night, since it’s Saturday night.  Just ask for the Preacher.  And don’t worry.  I pay them well.  They get fifty percent.”

Jim was headed for the door.  He turned.  “Yeah, but people should do right, you know.”

“I got a right to make a living.” said Preacher.  “I just give the people what they want.”

“You said it yourself, ‘People should do right, you know’.”  Jim repeated.

The Preacher shrugged, then nodded his head, as Jim walked slowly from the room.  He picked up Jim’s empty glass and, turning to the sink, washed it vigorously in hot soapy water.

“If she gives you any trouble, just slap the shit out of her.”  said Pop.  “That’s what I do.”

Jack sipped nervously on a second can of beer.  Pop chuckled drunkenly.  “Me and Mom will be gone at least an hour.  That’s enough time, ain’t it?” he asked smiling.

Jack nodded and took a large gulp of beer, trying to clear his head.

Pop tapped on Mom’s window.  “You ready to go in there, sugar-puss?  There’s a place a few blocks from here I want to show you.  Good beer.  Great chili.  And a really good juke box.”

Mom got out of the station wagon heavily, unsteady on her feet, unaccustomed to walking.  The wagon was still parked deep in the alley behind the supermarket.  Mom handed Pop his stained coat.  “Don’t worry about the boys, Jack.” she said.  “I got to leave them with you.  But they’re asleep in the backseat, and they’re too full of beer to wake up any time soon and bother you.  — Sissy, you be a good girl now and do what Jack tells you to.”

Mom slammed her door, and she and Pop stumbled drunkenly down the alley—arms around each other for support—and turned the corner of the supermarket.  Jack lingered a moment to be sure they were gone, then got back in the station wagon.  He sat quietly for a moment, listening to the two boys sleeping deeply in the third seat.  “Your folks are going for a walk.” he said finally.

“I know.” said Sissy, looking out her fogged-up window, which if she could have seen through it, would have shown only the supermarket wall.  “I thought they would never leave.”

Jack was surprised.  “You want another beer?” he asked, reaching over the front seat where only a few beers remained in the carton.

“I guess so.”

Jack opened two beers and handed one to the girl.  “Your folks sure are different.”

“Ain’t my folks.  Ain’t got no folks really.” said Sissy, and motioned to the sleeping boys.  “Ain’t their folks neither.  I don’t think they’re really even married.”

Jack was surprised.  “But why are you with them then?  If they’re not your parents.”

“The Courthouse gave us to them—pays them to take care of us.” Sissy laughed.  “To take care of us, ha.  That’s a laugh.”

“Pays them?”

“Yeah.”

“Why don’t you run away?”

“To where?”

Jack sat silently for a moment.  “I don’t know.  Go tell somebody at the Courthouse.” 

“Wouldn’t do no good.  They’d just give us to somebody else.  Somebody worse maybe.”

“Well, don’t go to the Courthouse then.  Just run away.  — Find a place to stay.  Get a job.  — I could help you maybe.  Give you enough money to get you started.”

“Wouldn’t work.” said Sissy flatly.  “And besides, you’ve already given away plenty of money for one day, don’t you think?”

Jack blushed, deeply embarrassed, then stammered.  “I guess so.  I don’t know very much about it, do I?  I don’t know anything.”

“It amazes me.” said Sissy excitedly.  “It always works.”

“You want to get out and walk around?” asked Jack.

“He’s a good mechanic.  Works on this old car all the time.  That noise it makes, he does that with the choke.  Pulls it all the way out.  This old car really runs good.” 

“I never had a car.  I don’t know much about…”

“Mostly we pick up hitchhikers, but sometimes we do it this way.  He always asks me what I think of this one or that one.  I told him I thought you looked sad.  Then we invite them to dinner or whatever.  They always come.  And they always pay.  Then Pop sends them for more beer or something.  And when they come out, we’re gone.  Pop must have really liked you.”

“Don’t talk about it anymore.” said Jack.

Sissy laughed, but became serious.  “Sometimes he gets drunk…”

“Does he hurt you?”

“No, it doesn’t hurt.  — Not anymore.”

“Don’t talk about it.” repeated Jack.

“Why not?  It’s the truth.”

“I don’t want to hear it.”

Sissy laughed again.  Jack was silent for a long time.  Finally, Sissy said, “They’re not going to stay gone forever.”

“What?” asked Jack.

“I said ‘They’ll be coming back soon.’ We don’t have much time.” said Sissy, reaching out her hand to touch Jack’s leg, stroking it softly.

Jack was startled, but moved closer to her, and reached out gently to caress her knee.  Quickly she took his hand and guided it up under her dress between her legs, pulling aside her panties and holding his hand firmly against her crotch.  She squirmed and writhed against his hand, and moved toward him forcefully, kissing him deeply on the mouth.  Jack pulled his hand back and moved away from the girl.

“What’s the matter?” she asked.

Jack didn’t answer.

“I can do it with my mouth–if you don’t like it that way.  Pop taught me how.  But you can’t tell Mom.  She doesn’t know.  – Pop says I do it even better than Mom now.”

Jack stared at the girl, shaking his head.  “No.” he said.

“I bet you don’t even know how.” said Sissy, pulling up her dress.  “Here, let me show you what to do.”

“No, damn you.” said Jack, fighting tears, his head whirling.  “Goddamn all of you.”

Jack reached across the seat and jerked her dress down.  “How can you live like this?”

“Like what?” said the girl.

“Why don’t you run away?” said Jack, mocking himself.

“I don’t want to.” the girl said defiantly, turning away toward the window.

There was a long silence.  Jack was thinking hard.  Finally, he asked, “What do you do with your mouth?”.

The girl turned, smiling slightly.  “Do you really want to know?”

“I don’t know very much, do I?  – Yes, I want to know.” said Jack.

“Give me your hand.”

Jack gave her his right hand, and she carefully folded down all his fingers one by one, except his middle one.  “I do this.” she said, and began to slowly lick and suck his middle finger.

Jack smiled slightly.  “And what do I do?”

Sissy smiled back and reached down to pull her dress up again.  “You do this.” she said, pulling his arm down very slowly and sliding his finger up inside her.

Jack moved closer to the girl, and kissed her softly as she began to move his finger in and out.  “Show me more.” he said quietly.  “Show me everything.”

“Sissy.

Pussy.

Sissy Pussy.

‘Why don’t you run away?’

‘Show me everything.’

Virgin.

Pussy.

Virgin Pussy.

‘One-two-three-four.  One-two-threefour.

I don’t know, but I been told.  I DON’T KNOW, BUT I BEEN TOLD.

Northern pussy is mighty cold.  NORTHERN PUSSY IS MIGHTY COLD.

Southern pussy is hot and juicy.  SOUTHERN PUSSY IS HOT AND JUICY.

That’s why I miss my girl Lucy.  THAT’S WHY I MISS MY GIRL LUCY.

Am I right or wrong?  YOU’RE RIGHT!

Am I right or wrong?  YOU’RE RIGHT!

Sound off.  ONE—TWO.

Sound off.  THREE—FOUR.

Bring it on down. 

ONE—TWO—THREE—FOUR.  ONE—TWO—THREEFOUR.’

Pussy. 

That’s why I miss my girl Sissy.

‘Sir, PFC Kennedy reports for pay.’

‘Count it before you leave, Private. 

And for God’s sakes, Kennedy, don’t give it all to one hooker, son.’

Sissy.

Pussy.

Sissy Pussy.

‘How long’s it been, Jack?  How long since you got laid?’

‘Long time, Sarge.’

‘How old are you now, Jack?’

‘Twenty-four, Sarge.’

‘Yeah, Jack, twenty-four years is a long time to go without getting laid.’

‘Fuck you, Sarge.’

‘Anytime, Jack, I’ll be glad to be your first.’

Virgin.

Pussy.

Virgin Pussy.

‘What do you do with your mouth, Sissy?’

‘Show me more.  Show me everything.’

Sissy Pussy Virgin Pussy.

Fuck.  Fuck.  Fuck.  Fuck.  Fuck.  Fuck.  Fuck.  Fuck.”