Let The Great World Spin: A Novel - By Colum McCann Page 0,113
to the chaplain about Rumi and shit, but he’s like, “That’s not spiritual, that’s poetry.” Fuck God. Fuck Him. Fuck Him sideways and backwards and any which way. He ain’t coming for me. There ain’t no burning bushes and there ain’t no pillars of light. Don’t talk to me about light. It ain’t nothing more than a glow at the end of a street lamp.
Sorry, Corrie, but God is due His ass-kicking.
—
One of the last things I heard Jazz do, she screamed and dropped the keyring out the door of the paddy wagon. Clink it went on the ground and we saw Corrigan coming out to the street with a muscle in his step. He was red in the face. Screaming at the cops. Life was pretty good then. I’d have to say that’s one of the good moments—ain’t that strange? I remember it like yesterday, getting arrested.
—
There ain’t no such thing as getting home. That’s the law of living far as I can see. I bet they don’t have no Sherry-Netherlands in heaven. The Sherry-Never-lands.
—
I gave Jazzlyn a bath once. She was just a few weeks old. Skin shining. I looked at her and thought she gave birth to the word beautiful. I wrapped her in a towel and promised her she’d never go on the stroll.
Sometimes I want to stab my heart with a stiletto. I used to watch men with her when she was all growed up. And I’d say to myself, Hey that’s my daughter you’re fucking. That’s my little girl you’re pulling into the front seat. That’s my blood.
I was a junkie then. I guess I always have been. That ain’t no excuse.
I don’t know if the world’ll ever forgive me for the bad I slung her way. I ain’t gonna sling it the way of the babies, not me.
—
This is the house that Horse built.
—
I’d say good-bye, except I don’t know who to say it to. I ain’t whining. That’s just the fuck-off truth. God is due His ass-kicking.
BEFORE THE WALK, HE WOULD go to Washington Square Park to perform. It marked the beginning of the city’s dangerous side. He wanted the noise, to build up some tension in his body, to be wholly in touch with the filth and the roar. He secured his wire from the ribbed edge of a light pole to another. He performed for the tourists, tiptoeing along in his black silk hat. Pure theater. The sway and fake fall. Defying gravity. He could lean over at an angle and still bring himself back to standing. He balanced an umbrella on his nose. Flipped a coin in the air from his toe: it landed perfectly on the crown of his head. Forward and backward somersaults. Handstands. He juggled pins and balls and flaming torches. He invented a game with a Slinky—it looked like the metal toy was unwrapping itself along his body. The tourists lapped it up. They threw money in a hat for him. Most of the time it was nickels and dimes, but sometimes he’d get a dollar, or even five. For ten dollars he would jump to the ground, doff his hat, bow, throw a backflip.
On the first day the dealers and junkies hovered near his show. They could see how much he was making. He stuffed it all in the pockets of his flares, but he knew they’d roll him for it. For his final trick he scooped up the last of his money, put the hat on his head, rode a unicycle along the rope, then simply pedaled off the ten-foot drop, onto the ground and away through the Square, down Washington Place. He waved over his shoulder. He came back the next day for his rope—but the dealers liked the trick enough that they let him stay, and the tourists he brought were easy hits.
He rented a cold-water apartment on St. Marks Place. One night he strung a simple rope across from his bedroom to the fire escape of a Japanese woman opposite: she had lit candles on the ironwork for him. He stayed eight hours, and when he emerged he found that some kids had tossed shoes up on the wire, a city custom, the laces tied together. He crawled out on the wire, which had grown loose and dangerous, but was still taut enough to hold him, and walked back in through