Passenger(16)

The woman’s gray eyes narrow. “You,” she says. There is sudden accusation in her voice. “You’re the guy who came in here last month, gave Suzie a hard time, ain’t you?” She is jabbing a talon-like finger at me now. “She called the cops on you, didn’t she? Giving Suzie a hard time about the same thing.” The birdlike hand snatches up the telephone on her desk and brings the receiver to her ear. “I don’t know what game you’re playing, mister, but I’m calling the cops. You can sit here and wait for ’em, or you can get the hell out and don’t come back.”

I am out the door before she is finished dialing.





EIGHT





Lost, hopeless, I wander the city streets until I find myself on a bench somewhere near Northeast Baltimore. The sky is overcast and threatening rain. I am overcome by a general malaise, a sort of chronic dampness of the soul. I anticipate giant hands reaching down from the heavens, grabbing me like a dishtowel, wringing me out. My stomach growls as I cast a wary glance at the clouds overhead and drop down onto a bench. baltimore, it reads, stenciled on the wooden slats of the bench, the greatest city in the world! Wholly ironic, directly across the street stands a row of dilapidated homes, pressed together like rotting teeth, looking like a strong breeze could take them all down like dominoes. The sidewalks are laden with trash, the street signs bent at right angles and spray-painted with gang symbols—fat chicks rock and shorty took the veal. Someone somewhere is barbecuing; the scent of flame-broiled meat makes me salivate.

A group of people, mostly black, have gathered at one intersection. Their talk is raucous, determined. There are a lot of fingers jabbing the air and many heads tip back on necks, hollering into the sky. Some carry signs, picket signs, and many of them are wearing bright yellow T-shirts with indecipherable writing across the front. Electric bass saturates the air, pumping from an invisible stereo. After a time, a slender black man with wet, hound-dog eyes approaches me and does a little jig at my feet, smiling.

“Where’s your sign?” asks the black man.

“Don’t have one.”

“An’ your shirt?”

“Sorry.”

The black man claps his hands. Then extends one for me to shake. His fingers look preternaturally long. “Name’s Clarence Wilcox.”

“Hi.” I shake Clarence Wilcox’s hand.

“Ain’t got no name?”

“One woman calls me Mozart,” I offer.

“Right on,” says Clarence, beaming. His long, gray fingers tickle an invisible keyboard. “Piano guy, right?”

“Right.”

“You waitin’ for someone?”

“No.”

“Looks like you waitin’ for someone.”

“No.”

“Looks like you hungry.” Clarence rubs his chin with those gray fingers, tugs at a wiry scruff of beard. There is an aloofness about him, like maybe his skull is full of used Kleenex and ball bearings and the discarded pull tabs from soda cans. “Want some burgers?”

“God, yes.”

Clarence laughs. His mouth is impossibly large, with countless rows of teeth. Shark-like. I imagine him trolling the ocean for prey. Again, he slaps his hands together. “Let’s shake it then, Mozart.”

I follow Clarence across the street. The house on the corner—arguably the most run-down—has some people sitting on the front porch drinking beer. Out back, a robust fellow with a cheesecloth complexion tends to a charcoal barbecue. The sight of the meats on the grille makes me want to break into a sprint toward it.

“This is Mozart,” Clarence tells the cook.

“Hey,” says the cook.

“Hey,” I respond.

“Listen,” says Clarence to the cook, “let’s load him up, yeah?”

And they do: they give me two hotdogs with ketchup and mustard, a plate of baked beans as thick and spicy as chili, a grilled chicken breast, and several cans of Budweiser. There is cake, too, and it appears it is someone’s birthday, as they all sing before cutting and distributing the gooey, chocolate slices. Ravenous, I eat the cake as I have eaten everything before it. I feel the large bites go all the way down and settle into my stomach. I am still hungry.

“Didn’t catch your name,” the cook says to me at one point.

“Call him Mozart,” Clarence interjects. He seems to appear from nowhere.

“What’s your real name?” The cook sounds suspicious.

“I don’t know,” I admit. “I can’t remember.”

“Oh, yeah?” says the cook.

“I don’t know who I am.”

“That’s something,” says the cook.

“You got the amnesia?” says Clarence.

“I guess so.”

“How’d you get it?”

“Can’t remember. Don’t know.”

“I guess that makes sense,” says the cook.

“Maybe you was some governmental experiment,” says Clarence. “Like maybe a spy or something. Maybe they had you doing all sorts of sick shit over in the Middle East or someplace and now you’ve come back, they erased all your memory.”

“So’s he can’t tell people what he seen,” adds the cook.