I DELIVER
Ian Lirenman
G3—G3 was the ward where G-Man lived, which is what we called him, or what Yale called him when I told him and he went along. I had a paper route there, in the hospital complex, so I saw him daily, but the why of this choosing—why I took a paper route—is another story, less forlorn and self-incriminating: I am probably not so cruel in that account; and that version does not end with a fast, purposeful death. His“G” was for other reasons, though, to be clear, and it was Yale who said so and I went along. I had given the wrong impression, twice—once to Yale, once to this man—to bind myself: in my defense, I might have been unbound, maybe wildly so—but safe from really knowing this, in some remote, involuntary hinterland of “kid.” The ward, however, his ward, was not important to this story except for its matter of fact actuality: it was a place to die. The “G” is simply a coincidence of place and alleged preference, his, or presumably his, at least at first, or what I thought at first, or at least Yale said so and I accepted it, but I did not name him this—I would not have. I would have probably preferred “Mister” or “Sir” or something else respectful, though I can not speak accurately about someone I may not have been, even if it was someone, at a certain time, that I might have called myself. Yale, he had always been one of my best friends, no matter how much I let myself be hurt by him—no matter how much he hurt me. He was always one of my best friends. But, in my life, I have never known a looser definition than “best.”
G3 does not exist. I do not say this for some story-telling effect, but simply to note a new passage or, more accurately, the continuation of an existing one. It has become a different ward in a different structure—it was torn down and I do not presume to know why, nor do I wish to give it an imagined significance—but sits on the same earth and for the same purpose as if its hospital congruity were pre-determined to preserve a memory of elsewhere for those who might still refuse to visit and those who do go or go against their will—except its inhabitants are children now and not the veterans of earlier wars who were made to call it home. But I do not tell this, either, to limn the contour of some supposed fertile circle that ends where it begins. It is merely fact—I am not trying to impress with an apparent hegemony of recollection, because this is far from that—and just that. Still, my memory of this, or aspects of my memory of this, did not vanish with the hospital’s reconstruction, or with their deaths and burials, or with my own split and separation; and the smell of warmed-over food and rarely-bathed bodies and stewed fluids and grown-man, shit-and-piss-filled diapers did not need to relent because of some unacceptance on my part. It is acceptable, and I do not say it for any kind of so-called tragic effect or vision of past or present or future ignominy; these effects, here and elsewhere, do not need to be stressed or manipulated to be regarded where they always are, even if known by other names. When you are young they are old, and also if it is not true and told in the same, changing manner, because it is said in some almost-convincing tone—no matter what approximation of son or brother or father they may once have been, no matter what pain or token of death their name invokes. One day it comes—although it was always coming or is always there—and this mother-rooted half-version, this tight-fisted clinging to time already spent, can no longer be honestly bought, and all the while you know the end of a foretold tale that tellingly begins in a hospital, refracted through the imperfect and corrected memory of a paperboy, and ends with a death but can not or will not say so in some straightforward manner because then you become the narrator of your own, sudden refutation. Nevertheless, you borrow again and go on. But I never should have said this much so early—in advance even of a single clear and tangible action—and in such a manner, and I still do not know why I did. And I should not have brought Yale. Without Yale I would have never got this far: Yale was so much crueler than I was. Or I use him unfairly for this—but he was so much crueler. I have heard it said that Yale “had no conscience.” Yet I do not reach for this as some kind of authoritative statement on Yale (although it comes from someone whom I knew well, who also knew Yale well)—or to excuse myself from the responsibility of my own thoughts—nor do I think I can subscribe to the apparent truth of these words, even if I am saying them, no matter how cruel his acts may have seemed. Neither do I mean to judge him—I have moved from judgment to some, perhaps limited, understanding of Yale, whose cruelty, I believe, has been muted or hidden over time—he was a kid then, remember, as was I, and his cruelties were kid cruelties mostly, at least as I understand them—and surely he had his reasons; or if not an understanding of Yale at least a version of myself, or a version of myself as a useful spectator of Yale—but he was known for this, I am not the only one that would have said so. G-Man, this man—I do not even know, did ever know, his proper name, which is not right when someone is made to die and yet, what may be worse, not even relevant to the killing itself—he did not deserve what we, what Yale, did to him, and all, perhaps, because I refused to admit that I was willing. He was sweet to me. He was sweet to me each time I saw him—I would not, even if it were true, say visited, although these “visits” were certainly not merely the accumulation of daily deliveries and the transactions that took place—and although I would not now, in hindsight, name what it was as an inclination on my part, business is business— money has its place, and giving, perhaps, perhaps giving too, although giving, like taking, is surely only another form of receiving, or maybe money had nothing to do with it—and fact is fact. I imagine that it has always been this way. I stood by when Yale did it and we both laughed, or I laughed because I was afraid of Yale—but not wholeheartedly—for what it was that I watched, what had, for the most part, been foretold to me—and this is only the beginning. I had set it up this way. The man did not deserve this. Yale should have come—if he should have come at all—empty-handed, not forewarned a day and then coming and powered up with some rubber utensil he had hidden in his lunch bag and locker and snatched from his mother’s bedside-table drawer under the pretense of its needing to be shown to be believed and not merely spoken about, as if this showing and not the mere telling of it would make it appear true-seeming—and not allow me the choice in his predetermination. It can not have ever been sane and pleasant to kill a man when you really consider it, no matter what the circumstance, even if it is seen as—and that only in the most forgiving light because we can not often, except perhaps in murder or suicide, be the prophet or master of last breath, only its witness or victim—as a “final push,” as if we ever really need one. And I did not intend it at first, not here, in this account, not elsewhere. It was a simpler story. Or at least I had wished it so, intended it before I had put down a single word merely to show off the adult-friendly generosity of my body, a longing to be regarded, ached for, touched, talked-to, considered however and at almost any price and not to describe in some elaborate manner myself as the recipient of what was, ultimately, this man’s need or generosity, my profitable compliance, and his unjust recompense—or even the threat of such—by the act of a so-called best friend. But I do not ever want the deaths of others on my hands when it is coming anyway. Is this not punishment enough?
We were sitting at school, actually. I remember it like this, when I told Yale, before he came. Or I remember parts of it and must fill in, as best I can, what is missing. But I do not know why I told him, truly. I do not intend to misrepresent anything, even if it ends up this way. Or I am not ready to say it yet.
When? Yale said, or something like this.
Yesterday, I said. Like this, I said. I cupped it.
You gotta be kidding, he said.
Seriously, I said.
What did you do? he said.
Got out of there, I said. Just like this, I said, cupping it again, making light of it.
I was acting the way I thought I was supposed to act. I did not tell him about the money. I pretended as if it was the first time, when he first touched it, before I had let him go further, before I had been repeatedly paid, before I ever felt like saying. Yale, he owed me now, I hoped he owed me now, but I am not sure what, or if, I would ever collect—but this can not be my reason. No fuckin’ way, he said. Then he said, I’m coming with you.
C1, C2, C3, B2, G3, G4—this was the order, I remember, with least distance from ward to ward, to finish as quickly as I could. G4 was “isolation,” to prevent contagion, and sometimes I had to gown and glove myself to deliver, fearless that disease might seep out: I was a kid. G3 was only halfnursed, or loosely supervised, or at least they collected themselves at the desk, as these men were not really sick in some readily classifiable way, but merely dying. I would race by with my paper cart stacked with papers and call into the rooms, not expecting a response, often saying, without stopping, when a voice called out for water or for some other simple assistance that I did not wish to give, that I was not a nurse.
Once, a man responded, “here,” softly, and I went in.
You want a paper? I said. Or I might have, or probably, said this. I am not a nurse, I said, not sure if the man heard me. I am not a nurse, I repeated, to make sure.
The man’s back was to me. He opened his drawer.
Would you like to buy a paper? I asked.
How much? he said, slowly turning towards me. There were four of them in the room, encurtained, shabbily gowned or robed, all of them old and perhaps not all of them clearly grasping this fact.
Twenty cents, I said. I reached into my pocket for change. Or you can subscribe, I said.
There, he said, slowly pointing inside.
I walked along the bed and pulled out a quarter from inside the drawer and showed him.
Keep it, he said.
If I truly was, if this is truly true as I remember it is, if it was, which I believe it was, then I was ten, eleven, but I do not say this for legalistic emphasis or to impugn; and you can not fasten a man to judgments when all you rightfully have is understanding. If it is anything, if it is anything that I can convey, then it is simply a recording of a particular time of my easy-going compliance, my desirability, my simple wish to give, or to be taken from—if only as some kind of eager but imperfect-perfect mirror—but this, perhaps, is much too simple; and a meaningful present, believable to those who need the conviction of time to persist, can not be built from such a meager assessment of my supposed generosity, true or not. I do not wish to tell stories, to entertain, with the humble collections from my thus-far, part-remembered life.
Once, near the beginning, when I had only until then received nickel tips, he slid the curtain along the rod, closing us in. Anurse shuffled in the hall; I could see through the gap. I was not scared.
How old are you? he asked.
Eleven, I said, if I was eleven then.
Here? I said. Should I put it down here?
Good, he said. It’s good. Look under those papers, he said.
I opened the drawer and took the envelope. It said “paper boy.”
I looked inside. Thanks, I said. Thanks a lot. I was not scared.
No. I am mistaken. It did not happen this way. It could not have happened this way.
Once, he plucked out a tissue from the box. I unzipped my pants. I was already hard. He put his hands on it.
Just in case, he said.
Okay, I said, not sure what I was saying okay to.
He pulled and pulled but all I produced was confusion. No knee buckled. No eyelid quivered. While he tugged, my current did not pick-up or jump to find itself climbing or skipping to a different limb, my spine, livelier. And I did not whimper with gratitude or succumb to a sudden, deeper eagerness to please. I was a boy. I had no idea what was expected of me—but perhaps the result would have been different if I had.
I better go, I said, after a while, quickly zipping up my fly, thinking that, in this division of labor, I had contributed my due.
One time I arrived and his sister was sitting beside him.
Thank you, Sir, I said.
I put the paper on the chair.
Here’s your change, I said.
He did not say “See you tomorrow.” He did not thank me.
Once—it was only once—he opened his robe. It was limp and a lifeless, worn, diffused purple, slug-like, dry and flaking but greasy-seeming, bloated, old, much thicker and longer than mine when soft. His legs were thin, pressed or shattered vessels, bruises, sagged, blue goose skin.
Touch it, he said, almost-wistfully-seeming. It’s no good anymore. Go ahead.
He did not grab my hand.
Be sure—be sure that in this story, my story, I am a boy in an extended state of such, and I did boy-things: I never touched it. I did not know what for. There were limits to what I could give—what could be slipped out of me or given at the simplest, most unadorned request.
When we finally entered, when Yale and I went in, Yale had it hidden—as much as a device of this size can be hidden—in his jacket or pant pocket and he and I held hands, lisping, pretending, or he was: he pretended to be flamboyant. I was a kid then. And Yale was a kid.
This is Yale, I said. He’s my friend.
Special friend, Yale quickly added. Hello Sweetie. Hello. He winked at him. He wrapped his arm around my shoulder.
Would you like to touch it? Yale asked. He let go of me and stepped up close, put his waste flush at the man’s face.
Go ahead, Yale said. Touch it.
He did not speak.
No. I remember now: it was the first time. The first time—I remember it as well as I remember anything in my life, as clearly as I recall all else that might I recall—the first time, when he first cupped it: I turned my head to the wall and regarded myself in the mirror that hung there. I was pleased with my self-possession. I remember me—I remember me grinning at myself. I remember this image so clearly, so clearly, in the bit-but-near-certain-but-rare, unrepeatable way that we avail of ourselves as ourselves in continuity. I did my best to hide any hint of surprise. I remember how calm I was as he did it, how grateful and unafraid I was to have it taken, to think that I was helping out. He cupped it there, at the nub, as if his holding it there was its own request for permission. I granted it.
That’s nice, he said. That’s very nice.
I did not turn. Then I turned.
Here, he said, handing me a folded dollar bill.
I tell you, it was the first time I saw him. The very first. I was not afraid.
I wanna see it, Yale said, more insistent. Can I see it? I wanna see it. He licked his lips.
The man, G-Man, he looked at me as if seeking my advice or protection, which I did not intend to give and could only rectify now at the expense of the accuracy of my own memory. I averted my eyes.
“Stop please,” I think he said. He did not touch it.
And then Yale unzipped it and it nakedly lay there again, pale in places and limp and brazenly veined and thoroughly of no other use but withered and decayed, drop-by-drop drain. And then Yale pulled down the man’s pants to his ankles and got on his knees, licking his lips—pretending.
The man—he looked at me. He kept looking at me.
It is hard, much too hard to describe Yale, to describe him in any way that you might permit a faith in his understanding without knowing him, if you did not already have the impression that you were remembering him how he was or how he can be remembered by you and for what purpose informed by only the most intransigent, rapid flashes conjured from a supposed, mostly forgotten past. Or how he may be now. He is not a character that I can invent. But he was not mean in the way that he might punch an arm or shut you up in some sudden way if you were to speak your mind. He was not mean in this way, in this bullying way. He was more, much more, deliberate—his cruelty was personal, had nothing to do with you. I mean, certainly a killing can be seen as an unfriendly act, but I am certain— as certain as an observer can be—that this killing, that this man would end up dead, was not his intent.
Yale yanked it out of his pocket, not even waving it in the air first, or thrusting, for some kind of fake dramatic effect.
I got something for you Honey, he said. You’re gonna like it.
The man no longer regarded me, but focused, bleary-eyed, resigned-seeming but without delight, on Yale.
Once, I remember, he took my hand, lightly, trying to get me to touch it. I think that these were his actual words: he thought that mine was “just fine” or “nice”—he said so, he said so often. I do not think he actually read the paper, or if he did, it was always folded back neatly where I left it, where it rested on the chair beside the bed.
No. He said it this way, quietly, sadly I think, lowering his eyes: “Mine’s no good to me anymore.” Or, “It’s been no good for a long time. Go ahead.” That’s nice, he said to me, that is what he said to me, when he first touched it, when he surprised me with his attention.
In my life, in my life as I have remembered it so far—there is no telling who might be kind enough again to give to me, a complete stranger, what I am too timid to freely give others—or what they may be too timid to receive.
Yale thrust it. He thrust it again. Then he put it back in his pocket.
He’s asleep, Yale said. Yale’s eyes were open wide. Can you believe it? he said.
He was slumped over, half off the bed, his pants still at his ankles.
He’s pretty old, I said.
Did you see that? Yale asked.
The next day, the next few days, perhaps it was a week, I skipped G3. When I finally peeked in, the man was sleeping. The next day I went in. I had not noticed before, no matter how many visits I had paid: on the bedside table was a framed photo of the man in uniform in front of his ship, smoothskinned, and another with him posing with his wife on their wedding day. There was a picture of whom I took to be his son, in shorts and a t-shirt, running, and one of this son with his wife and children. The bed was neatly made. His name—which I did not take time to note or remember, and can not now fabricate for the sake of even my own credibility—still hung above the headboard. His clothes were folded on the floor. In the part-opened drawer I noticed a small, wrinkled envelope with the flap tucked under, but not sealed. On it, in crooked, penciled letters, it said “newspaper boy.” I took it quickly, I remember this, so the other men would not see. Inside, there were six dollar bills.
Yale, the next day, or when he did, he asked me how it went, laughing kind-of.
Can you believe it? I said.
No. I do not remember exactly how he asked, or what I might have said to him. I do not remember.
Or maybe I think I said to Yale, “He won’t try that again.”
But perhaps—perhaps, this man, or Yale—perhaps I did not say that either. Perhaps, if I remember my life differently, I was much kinder than this.