Night. A breezy night. Warm enough to be out and feeling one with nature, but with a warning chill that if you’re out, you should be with someone to keep you warm, to keep you safe.
Who’s there for him?
He takes a swig from the forty bottle of Old English. He’s not drinking beer, it’s filled with water. Beer has passing out in strange places and looking for his name in his wallet memories for him. Alcohol made him loose, muddy. He couldn’t ever afford to be like that again.
Again the conversation comes to him, echoes and sharp and vivid and sunlight, just like her…
“I’m sorry, but I can’t stay,” she had said.
“What do you mean you can’t? You already have
for-“, he had begun.
“No..you’re different-“, she had said quietly.
“We’re both-”
“Not me. You. I don’t see you anymore and that’s
what I loved…”–
Lines from a balcony, five years ago. He shifts, the left foot now crossing over the right foot. He scratches himself and mumbles.

I got names. Namesnamesnamesnames. Lots. Somewhere is the name I was born with. It was Franklin. The last name don’ matter. I never thought of me as Franklin Someshit. Not even as mister Someshit, not even as Franklin, even. For a long time , I was just Frank and ‘me’ or ‘I’. But now I got lotsa names and other names in my head, so my real name don’ matter anymore. I remember being into comics and the horror ones were the ones that got me goin’ to that newsstand week after week when I was a little shit out in Brownsville. In those comics I learned that names got power, that you could snatch a bitch of a demon and make him screw anyone you wanted and this demon would do it, just ‘cuz you knew his name. This is the one thing I’ve learned and it’s kept me alive for most of my life, and I got it for a dime. My life’s been running on a dime. Think of it and I laugh: I drop dime on names and my life is running on a dime, and I don’ even have my real name anymore. I’m invulnerable.
Namesnamesnamesnames, and I don’ know the right ones. I don’ know the ones that could save my life. I don’ know the real ones, the ones that some people are born with, the ones that lock up said peoples and put me in the clear. I don’ know the names of the demons that are gonna come for me and they don’ know mine but it don’ matter. They’re not from Hell and they don’ have wings and don’ give a shit about Heaven or Hell because they’re human but not, they’re somethin’ more and they kill like we breathe and some of us can’t even do that right. Like me. Started a pack, now up to three and I smoke knowin’ that it’s killing me, not because of cancer, but ‘cuz when I gots to run, I won’t be able to run far away enough, but I still do. When the time comes, when they decide they’re done with me, I don’ wanna run, I wanna light up and stand my ground and hope to shit I don’ get a coughing fit right then and there, and I wanna take it, knowing that it’s comin’, not like some of the sorry bastards that didn’, and I say ‘Do it’, taking a drag and know my name and say it over and over in: my head ‘cuz if you don’ who you are when you die then just who the Hell could you be.
The paper boy don’ understand this. He don’ understand names and what hold they got on people. To him, names are shit on licenses and plaques and headlines and prizes. To him they’re words, they’re ID with no meaning. Not that I didn’ try to explain it to him, he didn’ listen. He thinks of this as a story, he thinks of this as cash, as a way to the top. It’s his way in the way I think this is my way out. I don’ know anymore, I don’ think I can get out of this shit and the paper boy is making it worse and now he don’ trust me the way I don’ trust him. Parallels, right? Isn’t that the word? Namesnamesnames and I don’t got words, just a few, just enough and maybe some more will come up as I put down this down myself ‘cuz only I understand it and someone should know. Someone would maybe give this to another someone, don’ have to be higher up, and maybe it’ll go into someone else’s hands and so on,’ til someone who knows their names will do something about
it. Maybe I’ll be already dead or outta here. Maybe the paperboy’ll sue me ‘cuz we got the same story and he’ll say it’s really his. Maybe the paperboy’ll be dead and me too and they’re gonna get their hands on it and sell it to some book company and it’ll be a bestseller and they’re gonna spend the money on getting me a proper grave so that they can piss on it. That’s how they are. They’re not demons they’re worse, they’re human, but more.
“Chris, another…”
“Sure..” Chris doesn’t even look at the bottle as he snatches it from behind and pours straight into my glass. He knows I don’ mind and I don’ want to him to go to the trouble of getting a new glass for me and he’s at the other end of the bar fixing another order. He knows my drink, knows my tip, knows my face and not really in that order. I tip good ‘cuz I know what it takes to earn a buck and what that money costs to the guy that earned it. I started like Chris over there, bartendin’, sleepin’ with lonely ladies who stick around ‘ til the end of the night not gettin’ lucky, smilin’, callin’ every asshole ‘buddy’, and smilin’ and pouring drinks, making some stiff, some watered down for drunks and cheapos. I started like that, young and spinnin’ and flickin’ my hair away from my face ‘cuz I cared about the way I looked then, combing before and after a shift, checkin’ myself out in the mirror behind the bar whenever I could, snatching glances of me and the people that were waiting, sittin’, drinkin’, laughin’, makin’ out, starin’ at each other, and sometimes some slob would be throwin’ up. I made it point not to throw up on my bar and I’d beat the shit out of any guy who did. Women had the sense to do that kind of shit in private, in the bathroom or some shit and they always seemed to make in time. Only once a woman gagged all over my corner of the bar and when I took her outside, she spoke and she was really a he, and I nearly killed the freak ‘cuz the thing he said was “I wanted to suck your cock and couldn’t figure how to get your attention…”
Nineteen and that was twenty years ago. I had a hard on like a rock and eveready like it had a mind of it’s own. A hard on in my pants and a hard on for faggots that’d hit on me and a hard on for that life. For rememberin’ names and passin’ messages and knowin’ what to pour for who and who not to take money from, when to listen and when to keep my mouth shut and known’ the difference between the two. From behind the bar I got in front sometimes to do a favor, to kick some clown out and to, eventually, break a nose, an arm, knock out some teeth. That’s how it started. Like Chris there smilin’ and flirtin’ with that girl and her long black hair, behind the bar, a spectator. I wanted in, the way Chris wants to be in that girl with no make up, to cross that line and play the game and sit on the other side of the bar with the bartender knowin’ when to keep his mouth shut, when I want a favor, to know without askin’ my name who I am and have that guy knowing what I drink, even if the name everyone called me by wasn’t my real one, but the name that made me a player, that let me sit down and be a bigshot. I wanted to be on the other side and that’s how it started, like Chris over there and I hope to shit he doesn’ want the way I did.
I’m writing this in one of those spiral notebooks that’s smaller than the ones kids go to school with, but bigger than what you see detectives on TV write in. The kind that get all tattered and shit but the pages don’t fall out unless you tear them. Three pages are missing. Right from the beginning, crumbled and sitting on the floor. I bought the notebook and I felt like a kid, walking out with it onto Columbus Ave. Like a kid asking for where it was and the clerk looking at me like I was retarded, smiling and pointing like ‘over there you dumb fuck’ and I just wanted to leave right there and give it up. But I didn’t and I walked around the whole day. I wandered into the park around 72nd street and noticed all the people wanderin’ with me, but they’re enjoying the green and space and sun and no smell of car smoke and each other. I’m looking to get lost, looking for a place to start it, looking for a reason, a line, somethin’, a face that I’ll recognize as one that’s got a name. I went in Central Park lookin’ for myself and I felt dirty. Dirty like the way I’ve been feeling lately and worse and here I am. I run out that park and all those people and made it all the way down Broadway. Here is where I started after two Wild Turkeys neat, and I’m stuck and my head’s empty. Alls I got is names.
Namesnamesnamesnames. Without memory but with just knowing which of those names are not around anymore. Maybe I haven’t made myself clear. This is why I got so many names in my head. I’m a pointer. I tell killers who. Who wants to hire them and who they’re supposed to kill.
This girl, not even a woman yet, just cause she thinks she can get a man into a bed with her, she’s a woman, eyes me and Chris puts a fresh glass of bourbon in front of me. He winks. “You still got it..” Chris says and this girl’s the one he’s been talking to, with the long black hair and no make up.
I can tell he’s proud in a way and pissed off too. He won’t show it. Respect. Chris turns away, smilin’ and looks at her one more time then goes and takes another order. I don’t touch the glass, I don’ even move, I don’ blink, I don’ take my eyes off her. She smiles. She’s got beautiful lips that are big but not slutty and I smile too. I turn a page and write something and tear it out. I fold the page over twice and signal Chris.
“What do you want me to tell her?” Eager, smilin’.
“Drink it.”
“Wh-”
I don’t take my eyes off her.
“Drink it.”
“I can’t stand-”
Her smile fades.
“Drink. It.”
Chris’ face squirms and he doesn’t dare look behind him, at the girl. He takes it quick, slamming the glass, wincing, shakes his head.
The girl doesn’t seem to get mad. I don’ take my eyes off her and I tell Chris to give her the note. He waves his hand in front of himself like he was hot and shuffles over to her, handing the note. He turns away before she opens it. She smiles as she does, then reads it. She looks back up at me and I’m smilin’, but not joking, and she knows it. I don’ think she knows what to make of it and you can tell ‘cuz she looks at me then Chris. Then she looks at me and maybe she understands. She smiles and raises her glass of probably Chablis. I raise my own slightly and never stop smilin’, but I take my eyes off her. I put thirty on the bar and leave. One of two things will happen. Either the girl will be here next week or she won’t and it doesn’t matter either way. I’ll know tomorrow ‘cuz either Chris will have somethin’ to talk about or not. He might even say to me ‘thank you’.
I walk back up into midtown, headin’ west. I’m startin’ to wonder if I’m just another name in somebody else’s head. I haven’t passed along a contract for awhile now, since that shit went down with the paperboy. Pointers are not people you can easily pick out. I don’t advertise the shit I handle. Sometimes people come to me and that’s because they’ve been referred to me upfront just to ‘talk’ with me, that I’m a good listener. Most other times it goes down like this: I hear things, I overhear people makin’ wishes and I figure out if it’s make believe or not. There’s a certain hard sound to a person’s voice when it isn’t. I listen some more, checkin’ them out, what they’re wearin’, how they talk, what about, what kinda words they use, the way they hold their glass. When it’s time to pay, I see whether it’s cash or card. Cash: how much, type of purse or wallet, wrinkled or new, how it’s handled, and what kind. Card’s better: what kind of credit and later, after I get a hold of the receipt, everything. Address, credit history, what kind of insurance policies, car, occupation and what hobbies do they spend money on. With cash, it’s interpretation, credit is just a question of how much I would want to know.
From there, I figure who to pass this info off to: man in black, the nigger, or the new jack? Most of that used to go to the psycho but
The man in black hammered the psycho and everyone’s nervous. The nigger and him have been seen around and out of town and the shit’s goin’ down that they’re poolin’ their money, like poolin’ fucking tips for somethin’ and everybody’s shittin’. I mean, business is goin’ as usual, but everybody’s double checkin’ the locks on their doors and tracin’ every phone call. Everyone involved ‘down south’ or with the ‘underworld’, like me, like most of the people I deal with, are lookin’ over their shoulders more often and the safteys are off on the guns. Two faggots, black and white, have had their tickets punched because they decided to have jungle fever parked in front of some Family sister’s house out in Ozone Park.
Even I can’t understand it.

In a room, watching the sunset, you are breathing.
You turn from the window, opening the desk drawer. From the drawer you take out cleaner and oil and set it on the left hand corner of the desk. You close the drawer and remove the gun from the holster. In thirty seconds the gun is neatly set out before you in pieces, it takes a half hour to clean and oil each piece thoroughly.
There is little light left on the horizon.
You reassemble this gun, put in its proper place.
You disassemble another gun, doing the same to it as the previous. This is this gun, not that gun, the one before, but a gun all the same, that needs to be cleaned and oiled, in the same manner that any gun must be, to work properly, to function.
You repeat this until you are done with all the guns that you have and you are ready to work.

Alfonse was a nice guy overall. He worked hard, payed his bills early, helped neighbors with their yards, kept an eye on the block. Everyone knew the thin balding fellow with the receding dark hair and, especially, his quiet friendly manner.
Vicki, his wife, was very shy, smiling awkwardly, as if caught. More often than not, she wore sunglasses, even on cloudy days. During the winter, she was hardly seen at all.
Overall, they were good people, the kind you’d invite to a backyard barbeque to, which most of the neighbors did during the summer and fall.
His neighbors would be surprised if ever they visited Alfonse’s studio in Long Island City. The one that he and his friends went to unwind, with a couple of girls. Young girls. And little boys. So young and little that you couldn’t tell which was which, boy or girl, unless you took off their undies.
And that’s just what Alfonse did, have babies strip for the camera…