Spitting off tall buildings - By Dan Fante Page 0,36

back seat. ‘Theirs?’ he asked.

I nodded.

The other cop pulled the bag out of the car. When he saw how light it was, he cackled. The three of us looked inside. On top, sticking out above the rim of the bag, were a milk carton, an egg box, a cornflakes box, and a cardboard orange-juice container. All empty, either taped closed or upside down. Beneath the upper layer of decoys was twelve inches of wadded up newspaper.

The one cop sneered. ‘Pretty slick.’

‘Yeah,’ said the other cop, ‘slicker than shit.’

Chapter Nineteen

IT TOOK TWELVE stitches to sew my head up. After the Emergency Room I was prescribed Fiorinal with codeine for pain, Valium to calm me down. I asked for refills so they gave me one each.

The hold-up changed me. I trembled involuntarily several times a day but I knew I’d get over that. The big change was that I had completely stopped giving a shit. I now drank without any moderation whatever.

The union rep from the Rodney garage came by my rooming house with medical forms. It was nine o’clock in the morning. I was blasted and stayed blasted. The next day someone else from the taxi company delivered a payroll check to my room. Two weeks of union-approved medical leave. $515.

Black sludge began seeping into every part of my brain. I stayed as drunk as possible and ate the Valium and Fiorinal.

The garage union guy came back with more forms. I knew he was there. Outside my door. Knocking. Calling my name. I didn’t answer. He left more envelopes and papers with Bert, the rooming-house manager.

I was filling a deep hole. Every day a fifth by lunchtime, from the bottle, like medicine. My goal was ‘numb.’ The whiskey worked good.

A week went by. Then two.

My shaking was gone but I knew there was no way I would ever drive a cab again. I was done.

On Seventh Avenue in Times Square there was an Oriental Massage that employed all Korean girls - thirty bucks for the hour. The secret to Korean masseuse hookers is the tip; the more you tip the girl the more she does. I always gave a twenty-dollar bill as soon as I got in.

I’d come in drunk but not too drunk. My girl called herself Sandy. A wonderful slut. Sandy’s American was lousy but she liked drinking with me, loved sweet wine. That and the twenty-dollar tip and she would do anything, lick me wherever I wanted. Anything. As much as I wanted.

Her shift began at one in the afternoon every day so that’s the time I would show up. Being first was important to me. I always wanted to be her first.

Even that stopped working.

Chapter Twenty

THE UNION GUY told me that my first Temporary Disability check would come any day. But I was in trouble, overpowered by depression. It wouldn’t go away. Now it didn’t matter how much alcohol I drank, I could no longer get drunk. All it did was dull me, make me slow-witted, but not drunk.

At night until four or five o’clock or until I could doze off, I’d watch TV; re-reruns of day-time talk shows, mindless bunk. Fat people who had fucked other fat people’s sisters or aunts or best friends coming on TV to confess and scream. The best part was the commercials, the home gadgets and infomercials. Exercise gadgets and diet machines invented by guys who’d written books and knew everything.

SEA-MATION is a service I’d see advertised all the time. The gimmick is cremation plus burial at sea. All in one: SEA-MATION. A fellow with a grey toupee gives the pitch while they continue flashing the 800 phone number of the company on the bottom of the screen.

SEA-MATION had a sale going, a ‘pre-need special.’ Ordering now saved you ninety-nine ninety-five. One week only.

I called the flashing 800 telephone number. ‘Hello,’ the voice said. ‘SEA-MATION, Mike speaking. May I have your area code first, then your telephone number…’

I was using the rooming house’s hall pay phone but I gave him the number anyway.

‘Your name, sir?’

‘Bruno…Bruno Dante. D…A…N…T…E.’

‘Thank you for calling SEA-MATION, Mr. Dante. How may I assist you this morning?’

‘I saw your commercial on the TV, Mike.’

‘Our pre-need special, “Passage to Serenity.” Five hundred and ninety-nine dollars?’

‘Yeah…the one on TV. The sale.’

‘I’ll need to get some preliminary information, Mr. Dante. Do you have a few minutes to do that with me?’

‘That’s why I called. I’m an interested caller, Mike.’

‘Well, good, sir. Excellent…Now, would our services be for yourself or a family