Chapter 5 chapter Five

I read the newspaper while eating breakfast.The policeman from the Housing Authority in Corona District still hasn’t improved, but the doctor said he is expected to survive.They say he may be partially paralyzed and possibly permanently disabled, but it's too early to tell. Two of three shopping bags have been taken from a woman who was robbed at Grand Central Station. In Brooklyn's Grayson borough, a father and son with ex-convicts for working in the sex industry (according to media reports, they were suspected of organized crime) were rushed from a car and took shelter in the nearest house .Their pursuers fired at them with pistols and shotguns.The father was wounded, the son was shot, and the young mother who had just moved into the house was hanging clothes in the front hall when a stray bullet went through the door and knocked off half her head.

The YMCA on 63rd Street holds noon meetings six days a week.The speaker said: "Tell you how I got here. I woke up one morning and said to myself, 'Hey, my God, I've never felt better in my life. I'm in perfect health, I'm married, Career is going well, and I've never been so sober. I think I should join Alcoholics Anonymous'." Laughter erupted in the room. After he finished speaking, everyone did not take turns to speak, but to see who raised their hands, and the speaker called by name to speak.A young man wins a round of applause when he says coyly that he has just turned ninety days sober.I wanted to raise my hand and mull over what to say.All I can say is that the woman in Grayson, or Lou Rudenko's mother, died tragically under a rigged television.But what have these two murders to do with me?While I was still thinking about what to say, when the time came, everyone stood up and said the Lord's Prayer.fair enough.I couldn't think of anything to raise my hand to say anyway.

After the meeting, I wandered around Central Park.The sun finally came out and it was the first sunny day in a week.I took long walks, watching children, cyclists, and roller skaters, trying to reconcile this wholesome, innocent, exuberant image with the dark face of the city that appeared in the papers every morning. The two worlds overlap.Some cyclists may have their bicycles robbed; some couples on a walk may return to a stolen home; some children at play may rob, shoot, or stab someone else; Shoot or be stabbed.People are going to have a headache trying to sort out this mess. Walking out of the park to Columbus Circle, I ran into a hoodlum in a basketball jersey with a glass eye who begged me for a dime for a drink.A few yards to the left, two of his accomplices watched us with interest as they shared a bottle of Night Train.I wanted to tell him to fuck off, but to my own surprise I gave him a dollar instead.Maybe it was because he didn't want to embarrass him in front of his companions.He started to thank me non-stop, which made me unbearable, maybe seeing my cold face, he gave up and backed away, and I walked across the street towards the hotel.

No email, just a message from Kim asking me to call back.The front desk clerk should have indicated the time of the call on the message note, but this is not a fancy hotel.I asked him if he remembered the time of the call and he said he didn't. I called her and she said, "Oh, I was waiting for your call. How about coming over to get the money I owe you?" "Have you heard from Chance?" "He came here an hour ago. All right. Can you come over?" I asked her to give me an hour.I went upstairs, showered, shaved.I got fully dressed, and then I didn't like the outfit I was wearing, so I changed.As I scrambled to tie my tie, I suddenly realized what I was doing.I'm so dressed up like I'm on my girlfriend's date.

I couldn't help but burst out laughing. — Stick School · E Book Group — I put on my hat and coat and walked out of the hotel.She lived in Murray Hill, between Thirty-eighth Street, Third Avenue, and Lakes Avenue.I walked to Fifth Avenue, took the bus first, got off the bus, walked for a while and walked east.Her building was a prewar apartment building, red brick, fourteen stories high, with a tiled lobby and bonsai palms.I gave my name to the porter and he called upstairs on the walkie-talkie.After confirming that Kim was waiting for me, he pointed me in the direction of the elevator.He was trying to be nonjudgmental, but I think he knew what Kim was doing, so he treated me like a prostitute, and was careful not to smirk.

I took the elevator to the twelfth floor and walked to her room.When he arrived, the door opened.She stood in the doorway, as if embedded in a picture frame.With her blond braids, her blue eyes, and those cheekbones, I could have thought of her for a moment as a statue of a Viking ship's head. "Oh, Matthew," she said, coming and hugging me.She was about my height and gave me a firm hug as I felt the pressure of her firm breasts and thighs and smelled her rich perfume. "Matthew," she pulled me into the room and closed the door, "God, I'm so grateful to Elaine for letting me ask you for help. Do you know what you are? You're my hero."

"I just talked to the man." "Whatever you did, it worked. That's all I care about. Please sit down and rest for a while. Would you like something to drink?" "no thanks." "Have some coffee?" "Okay, if it doesn't bother you." "Sit down, please. It's instant, you don't mind. I'm too lazy to make real coffee." I told her instant coffee would be good too. I sat on the couch and waited while she made the coffee.The rooms are comfortable and the furniture, although modest, is still pretty.A soft jazz piano solo was played on the stereo, and a black cat poked its head out from the corner to look at me cautiously, and then disappeared from my sight.On the coffee table were a few recent magazines—People, TV Guide, Cosmopolitan, and Natural History.On the wall above the stereo is a framed poster designed by the Whitney for an exhibition of Hopper's paintings a few years ago.On another wall are a pair of African masks.In the center of the oak floor was a Scandinavian rug in an abstract pattern of blue and green.

When she returned with coffee, I raved about the room.She said she hoped to keep the apartment. "But from a certain point of view," she said, "it's better not to, you know? I mean, if I stay here, people will come to me. Men." "certainly." "Besides, there's nothing here that's mine. I mean, there's only that poster in the room that I picked. I went to that show and wanted to keep something as a memento. That guy painted loneliness. People get together , but separated from each other, looking in different directions. It hit me, really."

"Where do you plan to live in the future?" "Find a good place," she said confidently.She sat next to me on the couch, one long leg tucked under her hip, her coffee cup on the other lap.She was wearing the fuchsia jeans she had worn at Armstrong's last time, with a lemon sweater.Nothing appears to be worn underneath the sweater.She was barefoot, with toenails and fingernails the same tawny port color.She was wearing bedroom slippers, but kicked them off when she sat down.I noticed the blue of her eyes, and the green of the baguette ring, and then my eyes were drawn to the carpet.It looks like someone took the colors on there and mixed them together with a blender.

She blew on the coffee, took a sip, and leaned forward to place the coffee cup on the coffee table.She lit a cigarette and said, "I don't know what you told Chance, but he was very impressed with you." "I don't know that either." "He called this morning and said he was coming. I was in chains when he got here, but for some reason I didn't think he was scary. You know, people have that instinct sometimes." Of course I know.The Boston serial killer never had to break in.All the victims opened the door and invited him in. She pursed her lips and let out a puff of smoke.

"He was very nice. He said he didn't expect me to be unhappy, and that he never thought of keeping me against my will. He seemed sad when I misunderstood him like that. You know? He made me feel guilty. He made me I felt like a big mistake, like I lost something that I can never get back and I'm going to regret it. He said, 'You know, I never take a girl back' and I thought, oh my god, I'm killing myself. Can you imagine the absurdity of that?" "I think so." "He's such a brilliant liar. It's like I'm quitting a great job and my chances of getting a pension in the future. Forget it!" "When do you have to move out of the apartment?" "He said until the end of the month. I might leave before then. It's easy to pack. None of the furniture here is mine. Just clothes, records and Hopper posters, but you know what? Those things can stay here. I Don't want to take anything that reminds me of this place with me." I took a few sips of coffee.It's milder than my preferred flavor.The piano solo is over, followed by a piano trio.She told me again that Chance was impressed with me. "He wanted to know how I came to you," she said. "I vaguely said you were a friend of a friend of mine. He said I didn't have to hire you, I just had to talk to him." "Probably true." "Maybe. But I don't think so. Even if I did talk to him first, assuming I worked up the courage to try to talk to him, over time I might come around and the subject might be put aside. You know, I would also put it aside and not say it outright. He'll find a way to imply that it's impossible for me to leave him. He probably won't say 'look bitch, you stay here or I'll ruin you '. He might not say it, but I'll hear it." "Did you hear the meaning today?" "No. That's the point, I didn't catch it." Her hand gripped my arm on the armrest. "Oh, before I forget," she got up off the couch on my arm, went across the room to rummage through her wallet, then came back to the couch and handed me five hundred-dollar bills, which I presumably returned three days ago hers. She said: "It seems that there should be some rewards." "You paid me well enough." "But you did a great job." She put one arm on the back of the sofa and leaned towards me.As I watched her golden braids coiled around her head, I couldn't help but think of a woman I knew—a sculptor with a loft in the Ribeca district—who had carved the head of the Gorgon Medusa.Like the statue of Jane Keane, King has the same broad forehead and high cheekbones.But the expressions are different.Jane's Medusa looked desperately disappointed, but Kim's expression was elusive. "Is that a contact lens?" I asked. "What? Oh, my eyes. They were born. Kind of weird, aren't they?" "unusual." Now, I can understand her expression.I see expectations. "Beautiful eyes." — Stick School · E Book Group — There was a soft smile on her wide lips.I moved slightly closer to her, and she immediately fell into my arms, fresh, warm and eager.I kiss her lips, throat and closed eyes.Her bedroom was large and sunny, with thick carpeted floors, an unmade king-size bed, and the black cat dozing on a chintz-covered dressing chair.Kim drew the curtains, gave me a shy glance, and started undressing.There's something weird about our copulation.She's curvy, dreamy, and passionate.I was amazed at the intensity of my desire, but it was all natural carnal desire.My mind seemed oddly detached from our bodies, watching our actions from afar.Stretch and relax at the last moment, and the most valuable thing is that it brings short-term pleasure.I moved away from her, feeling like I was lying in the middle of a desert of yellow sand and dead wood.I was struck by an astonishing wave of grief, a dull pain in the back of my throat, and I was on the verge of tears.Soon, this feeling disappeared.I don't know where it came from and where it goes. "Well," she smiled, rolled over, looked into my face, and put a hand on my arm, "feels good, Matthew," she said. I got dressed and declined her offer to have another cup of coffee.She shook my hand by the door, thanked me again, and said she would give me the address and phone number when she found a new place to live.I told her she was welcome to call me anytime and for any reason.We didn't kiss.In the elevator, I remembered what she said: "It seems that there should be some rewards." Well, the word reward is apt.I walked all the way back to the hotel.Stopped twice on the way.Once to get coffee and sandwiches, and once to the church on Madison Avenue, where I thought about dropping fifty dollars into the donation box, but realized I couldn't.What Jin gave me was a hundred-dollar bill, and I didn't have enough small bills. I don't know why I tithe my income or when I got into the habit.That was one of the things I started doing after I left Anita and moved to Manhattan with the kids.I don't know what the church does with the money, I'm sure they don't need it any more than I do, and I'll try to get out of the habit as much as possible in the future.But whenever I make some money, I feel an unbearable restlessness until I give a tenth of the income to this or that church.I think it's superstition.Maybe I think that once you start doing it you have to keep going, or disaster will befall you. God knows it doesn't make any sense.Whether I give all my money to the church or none of it, disasters will still come, and will keep coming. This donation can only be postponed.I sat for a while anyway, thanking the empty church for the sense of stillness it gave me.I let my mind wander.A few minutes later, an old man sat down alone on the other side of the aisle.He closed his eyes, looking very focused. I wondered if he was praying.I wondered what it was like to pray and what people got out of praying.Sometimes, in a certain church, I would suddenly want to pray, but I didn't know how to pray. If there was a candle to light, I would light one, but this is an Anglican church and there are no candles. I went to the service at St. Paul's that night, but I couldn't keep my attention.My mind is always wandering.During the discussion, the boy who had spoken at the noon meeting recounted how he had been sober for ninety days, and he received another round of applause. The speaker said, "Know what you'll get after ninety days? Your ninety-first day." I said, "My name is Matthew. I have nothing to say." I go to bed early.Although I fell asleep quickly, I kept waking up from the dream.The more I tried to remember those dreams, the more they faded from my mind. Finally I got up and went out to have breakfast, then bought a newspaper to take back to my room.There's a Sunday lunch meeting a few steps away, I've never been to it, but saw it in the party schedule.By the time I decided to go, it was already halfway through.I stayed in the room and finished the newspaper. In the past, drinking was enough to pass the time.I used to be able to sit for hours at the Armstrong's bar with some bourbon in my coffee and not get drunk, just sip it little by little, cup after cup, and the hours just went by.Now I want to cook it in the same way without adding wine, but if I can't do it, I just can't do it. Around three o'clock, I thought of Kim.I reached for the phone to call Kim, but gave up.We slept because it was a reward she was good at giving and I couldn't refuse, and we wouldn't be a couple for that.That doesn't create any special relationship between us, and besides, our business is over. I thought of her hair and Jane Keene's Medusa, and thought of calling Jane.But what to talk about? I can tell her that I've been sober for almost seven days.We haven't been in touch since she started going to AA herself.They kept her away from people, things and places that reminded her of alcohol, and to her, I was in the forbidden zone.I haven't had a drink today, I can tell her that, but so what?That doesn't mean she wants to see me.Besides, that doesn't mean I want to see her. We had a few nights of drinking together.Maybe we could have just as happily quit drinking together.But that would probably be as dull as sitting in Armstrong's bar drinking coffee without bourbon for five hours straight. I even looked up her phone number, but in the end no call was made. The speaker at St. Paul's Church told a very sad story.He took heroin for a few years, then gave it up, then returned to alcohol and drank black and white.He looks like he's been to hell, and the memory is still fresh. During the break, Jim met me by the coffee machine and asked me how I was doing.I told him everything was fine.He asked me how long I hadn't had a drink. "Today is the seventh day," I said. "My God, that's great," he said. "It's really good, Matthew." During the discussion, I thought maybe I should say something when it was my turn.I'm not going to say I'm an alcoholic because I'm not anymore, but I can talk about how it's my seventh day sober, or that I'm glad I'm here, but when it's my turn, I'm still the same old saying.When I was returning the folding chairs to where they were stacked after the meeting, Jim came over.He said, "You know, a bunch of us go to Cobb's Point for coffee after every meeting. Just to hang out and talk. How about we come together?" "Well, I'd love to," I said, "but not tonight." "Then another day." "Well," I said, "sounds good, Jim." I can actually go.I have nothing else to do.As a result, I went to the Armstrong Bar, had a hamburger and a cheese bun, and had a cup of coffee.I could have eaten these at Cobb Point. Well, I always like to hang out at Armstrong's on Sunday nights.Not many people there, just some regulars.After I finished eating, I took my coffee cup and went up to the bar to chat for a while with a CBS technician named Manny and a musician named Gordon.It didn't even occur to me to drink. I go home and go to bed.Waking up in the morning with terror, perhaps caused by some forgotten nightmare.I try not to think about it.I showered and shaved, and the ominous feeling was still there. I dressed and went downstairs, left a bag of dirty laundry in the laundry room, and sent a suit and pair of pants to the dry cleaner.After breakfast, I read the Daily News.One of their columnists interviewed the husband of the young woman who had been shot dead in Grayson.They had just moved into that house and it was their dream house where they could have a decent life in a decent neighborhood.However, the two desperadoes chose this house to take refuge. “It was as if the finger of God was pointed right at Claire Ritzk,” the columnist wrote. In my Metro Brief column, I saw two homeless men in the Bowery fight at the Astor Place subway station over a shirt that one of them found in the trash.One stabbed the other to death with an eight-inch jackknife.The deceased was fifty-two years old and the murderer was thirty-three years old.I wonder if the newspaper would have reported the incident if it hadn't happened at the subway station.No wonder they were killing each other in cheap hotels on the Bowery. I continued to flip through the newspaper, as if looking for something, the vague premonition still lingering.I felt slightly hungover, but I reminded myself that I didn't drink alcohol last night.This is day eight of my sobriety. I went to the bank and put some of the five hundred dollars into my account, and changed the rest into ten and twenty dollar bills.I came to St. Paul's Church and wanted to donate the fifty dollars quickly.But Mass is being said there. I went to the YMCA on 63rd Street again and got the most dull speech ever.I think the speaker mentioned every drink he's had since he was eleven.He hummed in a monotonous voice for a full forty minutes. After the meeting, I sat down in the park, bought a hot dog from a roadside stand, and ate it.Around three o'clock, I returned to the hotel, took a nap, and went out again around four-thirty.I bought a copy of The Post and took it around the corner into Armstrong's.I must have caught a glimpse of a headline when I bought a newspaper, but didn't pay attention to it.I sat down and ordered a cup of coffee and looked at the first edition, and that news was there. Call Girls Chopped to Meat The title reads.I knew it was likely to be her, but also knew it was unlikely.I closed my eyes and sat for a while, clutching the newspaper in both hands, trying to change the story entirely by sheer force of will.The color, the azure blue of her Nordic eyes flashed through mine shut.My heart constricted, and there was another dull pain deep in my throat.I turned the damn page, and sure enough, the third page contained what I expected.she died.That bastard killed her.