Passenger(32)

Then I hear a sound like someone winding a clock. I perk up and turn halfway around on my stool. I do not know how I missed this before, but there is a gumball machine by the front door. It is not like the old-fashioned kind I bought from Wiley Jum. This one is more modern, the glass housing square, not circular, and there is a clear Plexiglas base beneath. A spiral slide winds from the top of the base to its bottom. The sound—the winding of a clock—is actually one of the young strippers turning the crank on the gumball machine. She is bent forward in exaggeration, exposing the seams of her black nylons running up the backs of her legs.

But I am not looking at her legs.

I am looking at the little green orb as it descends the slide, spiraling and spiraling and spiraling to the bottom of the clear Plexiglas base. Even when the stripper bends over just a little bit more to retrieve the gumball, I do not take my eyes from the orb, do not look away.

The stripper turns and pops the gumball into her mouth. She grins at me, pleased with herself. Surely she mistakes my interest to be that of the carnal variety. She winks and a pink tongue darts from her mouth while the gumball, unbroken, pushes against the wall of one cheek.

Because the refills are free and I need much warmth, I sit at the counter for a very long time. Finally, one of the strippers calls out to me.

“Cue ball,” she says. I can make out her reflection in the dented and pitted napkin dispenser.

The place is empty and even the waitresses have congregated toward the back where they can smoke cigarettes without being disturbed.

“Hey,” she says, more urgent.

I turn halfway around on my stool and glare at them from over one shoulder.

“Why you sittin’ there by yourself?”

“Why don’t you come over here?” suggests the other stripper.

I peel myself off the stool and, carrying my coffee, slide into the seat across from them. This close, I am certain they must be twins.

“I’m Valentine,” says the first stripper.

“I’m Angel-Eyes,” says the other.

I sip my coffee and say, “Nice to meet you both.”

“Boy,” says Valentine, “you look rough.”

“What’s your name, hon?” asks Angel-Eyes.

I say, “Ulysses.”

Angel-Eyes drums calico fingernails on the tabletop. “Hey, now,” she says. “That ain’t your real name.”

“Look who’s talking.”

“Hon,” continues Valentine, “we keep it real.”

“For reals,” adds Angel-Eyes.

“You lookin’ rough.” Valentine will not let it go. “You got junk on you?”

“Junk?” I say.

“What about cash?” asks Angel-Eyes. “How much you got?”

“Not a lot.”

“Got enough for some fun?” says Valentine. These sirens are tag-teaming me, pecking like vultures.

“Oh,” I say, “I’m afraid I won’t be much fun.”

“Shit,” scowls Valentine.

“Shit,” growls Angel-Eyes.

“Ain’t a shakedown,” says Valentine. “We figured you out here trolling.”

“Trolling?”

“For gash.”

“I don’t—”

“Aw, shit,” says Angel-Eyes. “You got any smokes on you, daddy?”

“No. Sorry.”

“You always sorry for shit,” says Valentine.

“Always sorry,” parrots Angel-Eyes. “Hey, daddy, who you think’s prettier—me or Val?”

“I don’t know. You both sort of look the same to me.”

“Racist honky,” says Valentine, but there is no spite in her voice. In fact, she reaches across the table and tickles the top of my hand with her catlike fingernails.

“I don’t know what’s pretty,” I admit. “I can’t tell the difference between pretty and ugly.”

“Who’s ugly? Me or Val?”

“No, no—I mean…”

“Yeah,” says Valentine, “you mean, all right.”

I finish my coffee and rise.

“At least toss us some smokes,” whines Angel-Eyes.

“Don’t have any. Sorry.”

“Asshole.” Angel-Eyes looks legitimately pissed off. “Always sorry. Why don’t you go be sorry some other place, white-ass bitch?”

Before leaving, I drop a coin into the gumball machine just so I can watch the gumball—a red one this time—spiral down the plastic slide. I do not take it when it hits the bottom. Instead, I spill back out into the night, pulling my coat tight about my withering frame.

On the curb, I decide to continue retracing the bus route tomorrow. It is dark and cold and with my poor circulation, I fear I may collapse in a frozen heap before too long. Even now, I am a long way from my St. Paul Street apartment. Up ahead, taxicabs are on a constant rotation along Baltimore Street. I hustle across the intersection and flag one down. I know I shouldn’t be careless with my money, but I’m suddenly exhausted and numb.

When the driver drops me off outside my building, I enter and take the stairs two at a time. I can think of nothing better than falling asleep. Over the past few days I have accumulated enough memories to lull me quickly to sleep, and I am anxious now to put them to good use.