Dagger Key and Other Stories

  A mile and a quarter along the Polozny, then up a steep hill, would bring you to the park, a triangular section of greenery (orange-and-brownery at that time of year) bordered on the east by the library, on the west by a row of brick buildings containing gentrified shops, and, facing the point of the triangle, by McGuigan’s. For me alone, it was a brisk half-hour walk; with Stanky in tow, it took an extra twenty minutes. He was not one to hide his discomfort or displeasure. He panted, he sagged, he limped, he sighed. His breathing grew labored. The next step would be his last. Wasn’t it enough I forced him to walk three blocks to the 7-11? If his heart failed, drop his bones in a bucket of molten steel and ship his guitars home to Mckeesport, where his mother would display them, necks crossed, behind the urn on the mantle.

  These comments went unvoiced, but they were eloquently stated by his body language. He acted out every nuance of emotion, like a child showing off a new skill. Send him on an errand he considered important and he would give you his best White Rabbit, head down, hustling along on a matter of urgency to the Queen. Chastise him and he would play the penitent altar boy. When ill, he went with a hand clutching his stomach or cheek or lower back, grimacing and listless. His posturing was so pitifully false, it was disturbing to look at him. I had learned to ignore these symptoms, but I recognized the pathology that bred them—I had seen him, thinking himself unwatched, slumped on the couch, clicking the remote, the Guide spread across his lap, mired in the quicksand of depression, yet more arrogant than depressed, a crummy king forsaken by his court, desperate for admirers.

  On reaching the library, I sat on a middle step and fingered out a fatty from my jacket pocket. Stanky collapsed beside me, exhausted by the Polozny Death March he had somehow survived. He flapped a hand toward McGuigan’s and said, hopefully, “You want to get a beer?”

  “Maybe later.”

  I fired up the joint.

  “Hey!” Stanky said. “We passed a cop car on the hill, man.”

  “I smoke here all the time. As long as you don’t flaunt it, nobody cares.”

  I handed him the joint. He cupped the fire in his palm, smoking furtively. It occurred to me that I wouldn’t drink from the same glass as him—his gums were rotting, his teeth horribly decayed—but sharing a joint? What the hell. The air was nippy and the moon was hidden behind the alder’s thick leaves, which had turned but not yet fallen. Under an arc lamp, the statue of Black William gleamed as if fashioned of obsidian.

“Looks like he’s pointing right at us, huh?” said Stanky.

  When I was good and stoned, once the park had crystallized into a Victorian fantasy of dark green lawns amid crisp shadows and fountaining shrubs, the storefronts beyond hiding their secrets behind black glass, and McGuigan’s ornate sign with its ruby coat of arms appearing to occupy an unreal corner in the dimension next door, I said, “Mia went back to her mom’s tonight. She’s going to be there for a while.”

  “Bummer.” He had squirreled away a can of Coke in his coat pocket, which he now opened.

  “It’s normal for us. Chances are she’ll screw around on me a little and spend most of the time curled up on her mom’s sofa, eating Cocoa Puffs out of the box and watching soaps. She’ll be back eventually.”

  He had a swig of Coke and nodded.

  “What bothers me,” I said, “is the reason she left. Not the real reason, but the excuse she gave. She claims you’ve been touching her. Rubbing against her and making like it was an accident.”

  This elicited a flurry of protests and I-swear-to-Gods. I let him run down before I said, “It’s not a big deal.”

  “She’s lying, man! I…”

  “Whatever. Mia can handle herself. You cross the line with her, you’ll be picking your balls up off the floor.”

  I could almost hear the gears grinding as he wondered how close he had come to being deballed.

  “I want you to listen,” I went on. “No interruptions. Even if you think I’m wrong about something. Deal?”

  “Sure…yeah.”

  “Most of what I put out is garbage music. Meanderthal, Big Sissy, The Swimming Holes, Junk Brothers…”

  “I love the Junk Brothers, man! They’re why I sent you my demo.”

  I gazed at him sternly—he ducked his head and winced by way of apology.