Gutterpunk: Young Girl With a Cue

Corcoran

1

Call me Cheyenne.

Cheyenne’s not a happy pig lately. She’s tired. She’s hardly slept since Tuesday for the rats in the walls and the gunfire and sirens in the street. She’s hungry. All she’s eaten today is a stale pretzel and it’s plopped in her gut like a lump of coal and about as nutritious. She’s colder than a vampire’s tit. It’s thirty-nine degrees. With the wind chill it feels like thirty-two and all she’s got to keep her warm is a ratty flannel shirt and a thin jacket her cousin Mimi gave her last spring. She knows the approximate temp from a forecast in a newspaper she dug from a can behind Starbucks. She stuffed a couple of crinkly sheets inside her shirt for warmth. It itches and scratches like hell. Later she’ll be able to read the headlines on her stomach, backwards and upside down. She doesn’t need a weather babe to know it’s windy and cold and going on windier and colder and even kids can get hypothermia from being too long outside.

She’s pissed. Not half an hour ago some jerk offered her twenty bucks to do what she wouldn’t for a thousand with anyone. Where does a guy like that get off? He was so fat his butt had a zip code. He probably hasn’t seen his weenie except in a mirror since Lady Gaga was a girl scout.

Hi, boys and girls, welcome to Life on the Street, with Cheyenne, your favorite gutterpunk.

Ha-ha.

Oh yeah, and I’m just getting my period and I can’t afford Tampax at CVS. I’m not even wearing panties. Better no underwear than dirty underwear. And when I say dirty, I’m not talking two or three days.

Forgive the third person narrative: Cheyenne this, Cheyenne that. I’m not crazy even if I do talk to myself sometimes, a lot. I like to pretend I’m being filmed for a reality show on TV. Not that I think living on the street is so cool or dramatic or that I’m crazy about reality shows either. It’s not and I’m not. But it keeps me sane when I think I’m losing it. It fills the emptiness.

So I’m squatting outside a pool hall in the city freezing my butt off. It’s three o’clock in the afternoon and the streets are deserted like the aftermath of a terrorist attack and everyone’s booked or locked indoors. And I gotta pee. I gotta pee really bad. So bad it hurts. But I hate dropping my pants in an alley and peeing against a wall. It’s demeaning and the worst thing about being homeless. It makes me cry to do it sometimes. Or so mad I wanna slit someone’s throat. The pool hall’s closed, until this guy shows up after I’ve been huddled in his doorway for half an hour. I know I should get up and go, somewhere, anywhere, but like I said I have nowhere to go and nada to do.

Howdy. Mind if I squeeze through? Howdy! Who says howdy?

No, I say, duck-walking a couple steps, still crouched like a catcher behind the plate. Sorry.

Nothing to be sorry about. I notice his key ring has a black eight ball dangling from a chain.

Thanks, he says, opening the door.

Mind if I squat?

Don’t mind at all.

Shivering, I read my horoscope in the food-stinky newspaper. It says: Today’s the first day of the rest of your life. Go for it. Who reads this stuff? Who believes it? Who writes it and gets paid for it? I want their job.

I watch the guy go about opening the pool hall. He’s merry about it, whistling while he works. I can’t hear him, but I see his pursed lips like he’s a politician kissing a brat. He’s singing also, to a song on the radio, or maybe a CD. I forget myself for a few minutes as I watch him switch on the lights, brew a pot of coffee, and count money for the register. He seems so happy, so content, it makes me feel like crap. I don’t want to believe there’s really people in the world who are happy, people who like their jobs, people who whistle while they work. Finally, I gotta pee so bad I open the door part way and stand there like a jerk. He looks at me for what seems like a long time, but probably ten seconds.

I hate to ask . . .

In the corner, hon.

Thanks, I say, thinking what’s with all this hon stuff. The pool hall’s well lighted and homey. A lot homier than the dumpy firetrap I’ve been squatting in since August. No heat, no electricity, no running water. Not exactly Little House on the Prairie. But it’s a roof and a place to flop. It beats sleeping on a park bench or in a cemetery.

Turn out the lights when you’re done. I’m conserving electricity.

I wave yeah, afraid I’m not gonna make it to the stall. I barely do. Most of the store managers in the neighborhood would tell me to get lost if I asked could I use their restroom. When I’m done, I spray air freshener till I gag on the mist. I smell from not bathing. Hey, Mr. Hon was nice enough to let me use his bathroom, I don’t want to stink it up on him while I’m at it.

Thanks. I appreciate it.

Nothing at all.

Oh crap! I forgot to turn out the light. Before he can say don’t bother, I scoot back and switch it off.

Coffee? It’s fresh. It’ll warm you up.

I hesitate, but he smiles, and his smile is as warm as the coffee he’s offering. Sure, thanks. But I don’t get too close.

He pours from a clear glass pot into a mug, nice instead of a paper cup.

Help yourself to milk and sugar. I drink mine black.

The milk and sugar and stirrers are on a corkboard tray on the counter. Behind the counter, there’s a padlocked rack with pool cues for sale. I can’t read the tags, but I guess they’re expensive. Two-piece and beautifully engraved at the butt end. In a glass case, there’s pool stuff for sale: chalk, gloves, cue cases, T-shirts and ballcaps with Golden Cue on front.

Coffee’s good, I say, happy to be out of the cold.

Dunkin’ Donuts. Can’t beat their coffee anywhere, not for twice the price.

He’s right, too. It’s the best cup of coffee ever. I’m sure the situation has a lot to do with it, no offense to Mr. Dunkin’.

I sip coffee and spy the pool hall and cues on the wall. I don’t know squat about pool, but the custom-made cues are so beautiful I just want to run my hands up and down the shiny waxed wood. They’re works of art. Whoever made them loved her job, too.

Have a seat, Mr. Hon says. Take a load off. I like to ease into my workday. No strain, no strain.

There’s a couple barstools between the counter and table number one. The only one with balls spread on top. Fifteen tables with green felt and lamps overhead. Framed movie posters on the walls: Casablanca, Gone with the Wind, The Hustler, Rocky.

Thanks again for the coffee. I guess I should rinse this out.

That would be considerate.

I shuffle my Skechers on the carpet, hoping he says, Oh no, hon. Don’t bother.

You know the drill. Don’t forget the lights.

I rinse the mug with warm water from the sink in the ladies’ room and dry it with a paper towel. This guy is a hoot. He makes me laugh.

There you go, I say, placing the mug on the counter. Clean as a whistle.

Is a whistle really clean? People don’t wash whistles after they’ve used them.

I look at him like huh.

He stares at me. Maybe he isn’t such a hoot. Maybe he’s got something in mind. He’s too nice. I don’t trust nice people.

You hungry, hon? When’s the last time you had a decent meal?

Yeah, I’m hungry. A little.

Here, he says, taking a wad of bills from his pocket. Go across the street and get us something to eat. There’s five hundred at least in the wad.

Oh no, I couldn’t. Really, thanks . . . that’s all right.

C’mon, you’d be doing me a favor. I haven’t eaten all day. I’m starving myself. I can’t get anything without closing. He could call somewhere for delivery. Practically all the restaurants in the city deliver. But I’m too hungry to debate.

What do you want?

Sam’s Place. Tell them it’s for Eddie Mack, Thursday special.

That’s it?

And get yourself whatever you want. I know you’re hungry. I can hear your stomach growling.

He opens the wad to a twenty, smiles, and hands me a fifty instead. He’s testing me. Will I bolt? But why? Fifty bucks is fifty bucks. I play it straight but when I hit the street the fifty’s mine and later for his Thursday special. I didn’t make him for a sucker. Screw him; he can afford it. He has more cash in his wad than I’ve palmed since eighth grade. He’s lucky I don‘t have a gun; then he’d be bumming lunch himself.

I head straight for the bus stop. It’s deserted. Just the cold and wind and no traffic and it’s like everyone’s avoiding me. Don’t go near Cheyenne. She’s bad. She smells. I bet the next block over’s bustling with people. Happy smiley people everywhere. I hate happy smiley people. Happy smiley people suck.

I just miss the bus and the next one’s whenever. I worry the guy’s gonna come after me with a pool cue. I pull the newspaper out of my shirt and toss it. Then I scratch my belly till it’s sore and red. Okay, I’m a litterbug, so what. I’m not a thief. Not yet, anyway. Not till the bus comes and I’m gone. Maybe he wants me to bolt. He’ll probably write it off on his taxes. Donation: gutterpunk.

For Cheyenne, fifty bucks is food for a week. No begging change for a burger and fries at Wendy’s. I hate begging change as much as I hate dropping my pants to pee in an alley. And don’t ask about number two because I’m not telling. There’s some things I’m just not gonna share. Don’t like it, change the channel. You can always watch reruns of The Simpsons. Marge was on the cover of Playboy recently. I laughed when I saw it.

I close my eyes and try to focus, what I’m gonna do with the fifty. Fuhgeddaboutit. It’s not happening. My mind’s all over the place like I’m tripping. I see dead people. Actually, I see people I wish were dead. Like Butch, my mom’s meth-head, Harley-humpin’ boyfriend. I see Butch grab my butt when I’m ironing my clothes for school in the morning and I tell him if he touches me again I’ll burn him with the iron. He touches me again. I burn him. And he socks me in the eye. That’s when I split, seven in the morning on a Monday, just the clothes on my back, underwear and hoodie and toothbrush in my backpack—so much for school. Bye, mom. Bye, Butch. You’re dead to me. And I never looked back. Someone’s gonna get killed in that house and it ain’t gonna be Cheyenne.

I open my eyes and the first thing I see in Sharpie scrawl on the bench is: DO THE RIGHT THING.

Wooooo!

I haul ass to Sam’s and order the Thursday special before the pool hall guy puts a contract out on me. For all I know he’s a wiseguy like Tony Soprano and all that hon stuff is just a front. This is America, anything’s possible. You never know who you’re dealing with.

Thursday special’s a hot pastrami sandwich on rye, with Russian dressing, a side order of potato salad, extra pickles, and, for dessert, cheesecake—this guy couldn’t care less about cholesterol. I’m so hungry I can’t decide: sandwich, salad, or dinner. I order meat loaf, mashed potatoes, string beans, a roll with butter, and a jumbo soda—a regular American, sit-down-with-the-family meal, which I haven’t had since I’m ten.

Supper’s on.

Shhhhh, he says, a finger raised to his lips. Cue in hand, he crouches his gangly frame over table one.

Sorry.

That’s okay, hon. Don’t let your dinner get cold.

I’m glad he told me to eat; otherwise, I’d have a long wait. There’s nothing worse than cold meat loaf, unless it’s cold mashed potatoes. I don’t know much about pool, but watching him knock in one ball after another after another, one thing’s clear. This guy can play. By my count, he sinks sixty balls in a row. He’s dead on, whether a long shot from one end of the table to the other, or a bank off the cushion. He looks cool doing it, gliding around the table like a dancer. His red-gripped cue comes to life in his hands. I never saw anyone concentrate like that. I’m impressed. One thing—he has a limp. How did I miss that?

Wow! I say, when finally he blows a shot. How many balls was that?

Five or six racks, I guess. He’s figuring in his head how he missed that last shot, an easy one. I multiply on my fingers, six racks—I want to give him the benefit of the doubt—times fifteen balls. Ninety balls at most, seventy-five at least.

Holy crap! Ninety balls. That must be some kind of record.

He smiles, like you smile at a kid when she says something stupid.

A decent run, he says, twisting his cue in half and placing it carefully in a leather case. And that’s it, ho-hum, ninety balls, a decent run. Cheyenne’s got a lot to learn.

He eats with the same deliberateness he plays pool. He savors each bite of his sandwich and each fork full of potato salad like a kid savors an ice cream sundae. He drinks another mug of black coffee with his meal.

What’s your name? I say, hand to face while I chew.

Eddie. Eddie Mack. On the circuit they call me Fast Eddie Mack.

What circuit?

Pool circuit. Tournaments, and the like.

You’re a pro?

That’s a matter of opinion, Eddie says, and from his tone I figure I should drop it. Not that he’s rude. He seems the kind of guy who’d smack you upside the head with a cue but be real polite about it. Like a hit man in the movies.

I’m Cheyenne, I say, fidgety with the lull. I’m not a compulsive talker, but Eddie’s easy way puts me off. He’s so comfortable with himself it makes me twitch.

Is that the name your parents gave you?

No.

Tell me?

Jennifer, I say with a shrug.

I like Cheyenne better. My first wife was a Jennifer. If I never know another Jennifer again it’ll be too soon.

You have a second wife?

Our twentieth anniversary’s soon, in January.

What’s her name?

Rowena. Best thing ever happened to me. Can’t imagine life without her.

That’s sweet. I never heard a man talk like that before.

We eat and talk, talk and eat, and drink another mug of coffee, third for Eddie, second for me. I glance at the clock on the wall. Not that I want to leave, and not that he’s in a hurry to get rid of me.

You keep looking at the clock. You have a job interview or something?

No.

No offense meant.

I’ve forgotten to give Eddie his change. Oh crap!

I dig the bills and change from the pocket of my grimy jeans and go to hand it to him. He brushes me off.

Keep it. I won a couple grand last night. Just don’t spend it on drugs, or booze. Can you promise me that?

You think I’m a druggie?

I think you’re a good kid who got a bad break in life.

I don’t know what to say.

Thanks’ll do it.

Thanks. I’ll pay you back. I promise.

Eddie smiles that warm smile of his, and takes two cues from a rack. Squinting, he looks down the length of one, then the other. He’s checking to see if the cues are warped.

Okay, Cheyenne. Now I’m gonna give you a few pointers in the fine art of billiards. Take notes.

As much as I trust Eddie, I have to keep telling myself he’s not Butch when he gets close to show me how to hold the cue.

That’s it, hon. Hold it between your thumb and first finger.

It feels awkward. I’d rather rest it on my knuckles.

You’ll never shoot like a pro resting the cue on your knuckles.

Whatever you say. You’re the man.

That’s right.

I hold the cue the way Eddie says, but it feels wrong. I poke the white ball, and jam the tip of the cue into the green felt. He smiles like he knows a secret about me. He’s cute, for a geezer. He’s gotta be forty.

Ooops! Sorry.

It’s okay. Chalk your fingers.

He takes my left hand in both of his and rubs blue chalk on the inside of my thumb and first finger. The bridge fingers, he calls them. He’s almost delicate about it, the way my mom used to dab rouge on her cheeks when she got dressed up to go out on a date, before she became a crack head. Then he lets go my hand.

I don’t mean to get familiar. I’m harmless.

That’s okay. Get familiar and I’ll rip your throat out.

He laughs. That’s good, hon. A girl’s got to know how to stand up for herself. Set limits. Kids grow up too fast these days.

Tell me about it.

"I bet you could tell me about it."

After an hour, I pocket four balls in a row and feel great. Like I’ve accomplished something. I’m a happy pig for a change.

2

It looked so natural, so easy, Eddie bridging the cue with his left hand on the green-felted table. When I do it, it feels awkward. That doesn’t stop me from practicing, even without a cue. I’m obsessed. I can’t wait to go back to the Golden Cue and learn some more.

It’s mucho cold so I take the bus to the university. Taking the bus is a treat. Not that I mind walking most days. I bet I walk fifty miles a week. I’m self-conscious because I smell. I’m not one of those gutterpunks who prides herself on not bathing. I hate not having a place to shower and shave my legs and pits. Believe me, being homeless isn’t some adventure in the great outdoors. Sometimes I think if I’m homeless too long I’m gonna step in front of a train and that’s that. A paragraph about me in the Daily News and I’m gone, forgotten, like I never existed. I don’t wonder anymore who’ll be at my funeral. It’s not like anyone loves Cheyenne. Oh, Cousin Mimi, maybe, but that’s all.

Usually the bus takes twenty minutes. Today it takes longer due to construction at the bridge. A water main broke like a geyser. There’s trucks everywhere, and a gaping hole dug in the street, with piles of reddish-brown dirt next to it. There’s a dozen fat guys in overalls and yellow hard hats, a few digging with shovels, a bunch drinking coffee and chomping donuts.

The bus is warm and the heat feels good. It’s not so crowded that people have to stand. I have a seat to myself. I’m lost in my thoughts. My shrunken world has gotten bigger. I’m in love—with the game of pool. I can’t believe I sunk four balls in a row. Good shots, too. Someday I’m gonna have my own custom-made cue with a red pearl handle. I don’t care if I have to mug an old lady to get it.

I’m intent on learning how to bridge the cue like Eddie. I place my left hand on my thigh and run the first finger of my right hand through the open space of my thumb and first two fingers on my left hand. Like the finger on my right hand was the shooting end of a pool cue. It’s easier to imagine than explain. I practice like that, pushing my finger in and out, getting a feel for my stroke. It sounds silly, but till now I’ve never concentrated so hard on anything.

Hey, girl. Whatcha doin’?

Creepo’s staring at me all bug-eyes and drool-mouth, imitating what I’m doing with my hands and fingers. Push, stroke; push, stroke. Only guess which finger he’s pushing and stroking? He goes to sit next to me and I show him my box cutter. He sits back down but he’s still on my case. He’s skinny as linguini, with crooked teeth and eyes like a kitten stomper, and he thinks he’s a playa—way too much MTV for this geek. I stare out the window, thinking about Eddie Mack and the Golden Cue.

Just tryin’ to be friendly, sweetheart.

Sit on it and tweet.

Like Eddie said, A girl’s got to learn how to stand up for herself. It’s