South Street Read Free Page A

windows of a long-condemned junk shop—“only you wonder, you know what I mean? You got to be wonderin’ if she even knows who’s doin’ it to her. Maybe it don’t make no difference. Does it make a difference?” Rayburn got no answer and, after a few minutes, forgetting the question, turned east once again and moved on, feet scuffing the cracked sidewalk, past the deserted Salvation Army Mission Post, past the tobacco-juice-stained steps of tubercular rowhouses, his eyes glassed over and tired-looking. He shoved his hands into his pants pockets and held himself for a minute, then tottered into the next alleyway and urinated inaccurately, watching the clear stream splash on the cobblestones and spatter droplets back on his legs, not moving, not reacting at all when the pressure diminished and the stream shortened and the urine dribbled onto his shoes. He zipped his pants and staggered out onto the street again, but now he had forgotten where he was going, so he just kept on walking, past the glittering facade of The Word of Life Church, with its fluorescent cross and flood-lit marquee assuring all and sundry that Jesus saved, past decaying houses and dilapidated stores, past the shadowy entrance beside one burned-out store that led to the apartment he called home. The light from the sign of the Elysium Hotel fell like a wide white bar across the street and the sidewalk in front of him; he moved close to the walls, trying to avoid the harsh light, moving on to the corner, across the street. And then he looked up and stopped, seeing the spire of the bank building rising, shining, puncturing the night sky. He stared up at it, swaying back and forth, then looked down suddenly to see a bus standing in front of him, door open, engine rumbling.
    “C’mon, buddy,” shouted the driver. “I ain’t got all night. You gonna ride or you gonna piss in your pants?” Rayburn stared a second longer, then climbed aboard totteringly, hanging onto the handrail like a tired old lady. “C’mon, for Chrissakes. Ain’t you got a quarter?” Rayburn obediently fished out a quarter and dropped it into the fare box, fumbling for a minute as his erratic coordination made it difficult for him to get his hand over the slot. “Shees,” said the bus driver. “What the hell am I, crazy? Runnin’ around here with nuttin’ but drunks. Take a seat, buddy, before you fall on your ass. Shees!” Rayburn grasped one of the chromium stanchions and eased himself into a seat running lengthwise along the side of the bus. The light changed and the driver pulled away from the curb, working at the big steering wheel, grunting with effort. His stomach hung over the edge of the wheel like a pouting child’s lower lip. “Shees,” he muttered, “shees. One friggin’ fare all friggin’ night. Crazy.” Rayburn stared out the window at the swiftly passing panorama of alleys and bars and darkened storefronts with dim lights glowing in the windows above them, all dingy from the years of smog and dirt and people. “I bet this joker’s soused,” muttered the driver. “Hey, buddy, you drunk?”
    “Say what?” said Rayburn.
    “You drunk? If you’re drunk you gotta get offa here. Regulations.”
    “Nah, shit,” said Rayburn, “I ain’t drunk.”
    “Yeah?” said the driver, peering suspiciously in his rearview mirror. “You sure?”
    “Yeah,” said Rayburn.
    “I dunno, you look kinda beat.”
    “I ain’t drunk, muthafucka,” Rayburn snarled. “If you thought I was drunk, whad you let me on for in the first place?”
    “I gotta let you on,” the driver said. “It’s the law. An’ if you’re drunk, I gotta kick you off. That’s the law too.”
    Rayburn looked at him. “Shit.” He went back to staring out the window.
    “All right, okay, buddy, take it easy, take it easy, I was just askin’. Regulations. Hell, I don’t give a damn if a fella wants to get himself a little one tied on on Saturday night. Hell, I’d be tyin’ one