*Apologies for the late posting of the next chapters of my novel. Chapter 6 is free, chapter 7 is paid. Consider supporting me as a writer; I’m trying to do this fulltime between three stacks. Only $30/year.
6.
Sam sat on the cold stone ground, next to his favorite bench along Central Park, by the Billy Johnson playground, between 66th and 67th. Cars rushed by along 5th Avenue. It was sometime past 2PM. Sunday. The sun was bright but it was breezy and a tad chilly out. Early fall. The cold, he knew, was coming.
Last night he hadn’t gotten back until nearly 3 AM. He’d gone down to the Bowery for a change of scene. He’d taken two trains back, jumping the turnstiles.
Now, he felt slightly hung-over. He was hungry. He hadn’t eaten since yesterday afternoon. Not uncommon. He needed coffee. Sugar. Carbs. He was out of money and alcohol. That depressed him. So he drank some water and sat on the ground and pulled out his Collected works of Tolstoy. It was an old, battered, two-inch-thick Library copy he’d lifted from the University of Washington years ago. It had a torn light green cover, a drawing of Leo himself with his massive shaggy white beard.
He was a few pages into The Cossacks, when he heard the sound of heels clacking along the uneven stony walk.
The first thing he thought of was Zelda. They saw each other several more times after that initial meeting in the kitchen. From across the room at an AA meeting. Sitting on opposite couches in the TV room. Across from each other at the big maple table where recovering addicts and alcoholics ate dinner. One day, when he was outside on the brick porch of the rehab, smoking a Marlboro 100 on the porch steps, he heard the door to the rehab center open and fall shut. She sat down right next to him. She was so goddamn beautiful. That sharp, angular face. Those wounded, dark eyes. Her short jagged hair.
“Hey,” she said. A feminine, rough-edged voice.
He inhaled, held, plumed smoke. He felt like drinking. He felt like getting the fuck out of this rehab. In front of them was a large grass front yard, and then a road. Beyond the road: Houses that all looked the same. Above and beyond the houses: Mountains.
He didn’t look at her. He knew she was playing a game. “Hey.”
“Why don’t you look at me?” she said.
“What do you want?”
She breathed deeply. She scanned behind them. She touched his thigh. He looked at her. She leaned in. They kissed. It was a deep, wet kiss. Their tongues twined together, greedy. When they stopped they didn’t talk. He held her hand. Her palm was small and thin and bony. Like her torso. Bony but tough. Like a cheap, thin switchblade. But he liked her. He said her name in his head: Zelda. Zelda. Zelda.
Sam looked up from his book. He and the woman caught eyes. The woman was gorgeous: She was tall, maybe an inch shorter than he was. She had pale long legs which stretched for miles. Her hair was long and thick and curly. Dirty blond. The skirt she wore was silver and glittery and very, very tight. And short. Same with her top. Good God. He could see all her contours. All her slight curves. She was a machine built for beauty. Her eyes were blue. Like Puget Sound.
They just stared at each other for a while. It felt like a long time. It was probably fifteen, twenty seconds, at the most. The sun glinted off her glittery skirt. He wanted to ask her: What’re you looking at? Or: Man, you are striking. You’re like a Goddess. Like Aphrodite. He felt insecure. Embarrassed. She was so attractive and well-off—clearly—and well-dressed and perfect. He was dirty and a mess. He smelled. He was starving. God: What would he do for a shower? Or for a meal? Even half a meal. A pint. A pint. His craving for alcohol grew a hundred-fold. He needed booze. Not even Tolstoy could subdue that radical urge.
Finally he said, “Got any money to spare?” It was all he could think of to say.
He assumed she’d do what every other attractive woman did in this part of town: Pretend he didn’t exist and keep walking. But she’d already done more than most; she’d already crossed an invisible boundary: She’d stopped and full-on stared at him. For the most part people just walked right on by. They didn’t see homeless people as real human beings. They were subhuman trash. Like non-human outdoor furniture. They were negligible. Who cared about the homeless?
She looked uncomfortable but she unzipped her fancy purse and pulled out a brand-new dollar bill. She hesitated, but awkwardly stepped towards him, in her high-heel sandals, and handed him the dollar. She did it at arm’s length, as if not wanting to risk touching the dirty man. He couldn’t blame her.
Sam took the dollar. He didn’t say anything. She didn’t either. She re-zipped her purse, slid it back over her shoulder, eyed him for another few seconds, seemed like she might say something, didn’t, and then just kept walking.
He watched her walk north a few blocks and then cross 70th and head east.