Sips of Blood Part 37

"h.e.l.l, man, when it hits the nineties in New York, I wouldn't blame a nun for going topless."

"You get to the shelter today?"

"Naw, managed to scrounge up some change and buy myself a burger down at the Mac's."

"h.e.l.l, you missed a great Jerry Springer Show. Eleven a. m. each weekday I'm down at the shelter, front seat, sniffing the beginnings of lunch preparation, goosing my appet.i.te with some heavy repartee. I love that show. Best thing on the air. And I think it's good for society. These people get to go down to a television studio and work out their grievances within the confines of a well-refereed setting. Those Springer bouncers are better than those refs over on the boxing shows. n.o.body gets hurt. Occasionally some babe complains about a broken nail, or scratch, but on the whole, it's a real safe way of airing your disagreements. A couple of times after a commercial I see a guest with a Band-aid stuck to his nose or forehead, but it don't get any worse than that. Sometimes I get so excited I'm whooping and cheering 'Jerry' with the audience. You know what I mean?"

"Yeah." Cliff gave out with an uncomfortable chuckle.

"How many times you seen the show?"

Cliff shrugged and rubbed the side of his face against his camouflage jacket.

"No more than a handful, I bet. You gotta come down to the shelter with me and catch the action. I tell you, when they start swinging and the babes start ripping each others clothes off, I d.a.m.n near p.i.s.s my pants."

A few cars still sped by, but otherwise the mood was quiet. Most of the homeless snuggled under rags and cardboard, replenis.h.i.+ng the day's lost energy. All except for sleepy-eyed Cliff and loquacious Emory.

"You know, I made a few dollars today myself," said Emory. "Didn't waste it on any Mac, though. Naw, I'm thinking more in terms of French cuisine."

"They sell French fries at the Mac," quipped Cliff.

"Hey, give me a break. I need to dream of something. Ever have those French snails?"

Cliff shook his head and adjusted his woollen cap further down on his forehead.

"Me neither, but I once read an article about them in one of those food mags."

"You read Gourmet?"

"h.e.l.l, I don't remember the name of the mag. It was the first one I picked up when I got to the library. Hid behind it, hoping the librarian wouldn't bust me. It was p.i.s.sing cats and dogs that day, and I wanted to dry off a bit. The librarian let me hang out long enough for me to read about these bugs in a sh.e.l.l. Starve the s.h.i.+t out of them for a few days, then toss some garlic and b.u.t.ter over them in a hot saucepan, and you got a real French meal."

"What about that long thing they eat?" asked Cliff.

"You got a dirty mind."

"The bread. The bread."

"Oh, yeah, you need some of that to dip into the sauce."

At the end of the block a man in a wheelchair tried to maneuver onto the sidewalk. He kept slipping back onto the street, almost spinning out of control into the midst of traffic.

"What's that?" asked Emory "Some cripple."

Emory slapped Cliff on the side of the head.

"Didn't your mamma teach you to respect the disabled? He looks like he needs some help. Come on, let's go down and help him onto the sidewalk before some car smashes into him." Emory stood and looked over his shoulder at Cliff. "Come on, get your white a.s.s up off the ground and do a good deed. It'll make you feel better."

"I don't feel so bad now. All I need is some sleep." Cliff slowly got to his feet, almost falling over half-way, except that Emory grabbed one of Cliff's arms to give him balance.

The two men hunched their shoulders against the clammy cold fog and walked in the direction of the man in the wheelchair.

"Wait up, man. We'll give you a hand," yelled Emory.

The wheelchair came to a stop against the back end of an old Lincoln town car.

Emory checked the sloped sidewalk and couldn't see any reason for the difficulty in maneuvering the wheelchair.

"Something wrong with your wheels?" Emory moved toward the seated man, and with one hand on the man's knee, squatted down to check out the wheelchair.

"I don't see any problem. Cliff, you used to run a bicycle shop. Come over and check out these wheels."

"Bicycles and wheelchairs ain't the same thing, Emory." But he obliged his friend and also squatted next to the wheelchair.

"What am I supposed to be looking for, Emory?"

Suddenly Emory was swept backward into the arms of a dark hulk that gnashed its teeth before burying them deep in his friend's neck.

Cliff never made it to his feet, because the man in the wheelchair dug his fingers into Cliffs voice box, exploding the fleshy cartilage.

end.