The Ambidextrist - Peter Rock

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      Copyright © 2002 by Peter Rock

      Hardcover published by Context Books, 2002

      Paperback published by MacAdam/Cage, 2004

      E-book published by Pharos Editions, 2016

      All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission from the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

      This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

      Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data [original edition]

      Rock, Peter, 1967–

       The Ambidextrist / by Peter Rock.

       p. cm.

       1. Drifters—Fiction. 2. Teenage boys—Fiction. 3. Homeless persons—Fiction. 4. Philadelphia (Pa.)—Fiction. 5. Schuylkill River Valley (Pa.)—Fiction. I.Title.

       PS3568.0327A8 2004

       813’.54–dc22

      2004014850

      ISBN: 978-1-94043-637-1

      Pharos Editions, an imprint of Counterpoint

      2560 Ninth Street, Suite 318

      Berkeley, CA 94710

       www.pharoseditions.com

       www.counterpointpress.com

      10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

       For Ella

      It has been raining for three days.

      The faces of the giants

      on the billboards

      still smile.

      —Charles Reznikoff

      CONTENTS

      SEVEN: OBSERVATIONS AND PURSUITS

      EIGHT: NEIGHBORHOOD

      NINE: MAGNETISM

      TEN: SPIRALS

      ELEVEN: INSIDE OUT

      TWELVE: TURNCOAT

      THIRTEEN: LATE

      FOURTEEN: EQUESTRIANS

      FIFTEEN: COWARDS AND WEAKLINGS

      SIXTEEN: JEALOUSY

      SEVENTEEN: TESTED

      EIGHTEEN: LAKEESHA’S MEMORY

      NINETEEN: ELECTRICAL CONNECTIONS

      TWENTY: NEGOTIATIONS

      TWENTY-ONE: MACHINERY

      TWENTY-TWO: EARLY MORNING HOURS

      TWENTY-THREE: BURIED ALIVE

      TWENTY-FOUR: AWAKE

      TWENTY-FIVE: THE BRIDGE

      TWENTY-SIX: FORKING PATHS

      TWENTY-SEVEN: THE NEW BEGINNING

      TWENTY-EIGHT: LETTER

      TWENTY-NINE: KEYS

      ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

       ONE

       FIRST CROSSING

      The four boys snatch the tattered magazine from each other, cursing when it rips and then trying to pull single pages free. It’s late. They stand beneath an overpass, light filtering down, the silent, black river on one side and the empty train tracks on the other. The boys are nervous, excited; they are only thirteen.

      “Man,” Terrell says. “These ladies are licking each other.”

      “You haven’t seen anything.” Darnay laughs. He kicks at the small pile of things they’ve found, hidden under some old boards, inside a plastic bag. Taking out a pair of pants, he pulls them on over his shorts, as a joke. He cinches the leather belt around his waist.

      Down the river, lighted letters circle atop the Peco building: PHILADELPHIA BELIEVES. A truck rattles past, overhead. Headlights shine, glancing across the water, and disappear.

      “Let’s get out of here,” John says.

      “Scared?” Swan says. He spills jars from the bag, along the ground. “Baby food,” he says. “No money.”

      And then, beyond the train tracks, the bushes begin to shake and rustle. First to one side, then the other, as if a number of people are about to emerge. A scream rises, and a dark shape suddenly breaks loose, lunging closer, shouting sounds that aren’t quite words.

      The boys turn and run, stumbling on the rough gravel, down the river, pages of the magazine still in their hands. Their backs crawl, bowed out, ready to be touched.

      “Wait,” John says, lagging behind. “No one’s following.”

      They slow and look behind them, not stopping until they’re certain.

      One man stands there, fifty yards away, illuminated by the faint light of the Vine Street on-ramp. They can’t hear him, if he’s still screaming. His body reflects slightly, his shoulders padded or hunched somehow. He kicks his legs out, his feet pointed; his arms are above his head, and he keeps twisting and kicking, all in slow motion.

      “White guy,” John says.

      “There’s just him,” Darnay says, embarrassed for running. “We could go back.”

      “Not now,” Terrell says. “He might have friends.”

       TWO

       QUESTIONS

      The next morning, Scott still wears his greenish-blue jacket. Some smooth cross between leather and vinyl, it looks like it belongs to a marching band uniform, with wooden buttons the size of fingers fit through loops, all down the front, and epaulets of dirty gold twine resting on his thin shoulders. His jeans are tight, faded at the knees, seams split a few inches to make room for his cowboy boots. His hair, combed but not quite clean, hangs almost to his collar; his face, shaved smooth, is thin and pale, his squinting eyes set close together. He smiles at Lisa Roberts, relentlessly, and his teeth shine so white and even, so at odds with the rest of him, that they do not seem real.

      “Thirty years old,” Lisa says, shuffling through papers. “One hundred and thirty pounds. Has there been any fluctuation in your weight?”

      They are sitting in her narrow office, their knees inches apart, her desk taking up half the room. Scott slides the soles of his boots along the carpet, sharp toes pointing right at her, then pulls the boots back before they touch her foot. He folds his left leg over his right one. Lisa is no doctor, yet she wears a white coat with her name embroidered in red above the pocket. He feels her eyes on him, looking him over, sizing him up. A magnetic paper clip

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