LITMIR.BIZ

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feet?”

      “No,” Scott says. “I sure don’t.

      “Me neither.”

      “Thought you were going to trash talk me there,” Scott says. “That would have been a mistake.”

      Across the river, cars race along the highway, glinting all different colors. Ray lifts his foot and moves it side to side, as if enticing or hypnotizing the fish below.

      “What are you working on?” Scott says.

      “Nothing in particular,” Ray says, but instead of showing it he slides the wood he’s been carving into his pocket. His hand, now empty, jerks toward the sky without warning; his leg flexes, as if it might kick. “Just found whittling’s a good thing to be doing,” he says, “when you’re alone in the city. Gives you an excuse to have a knife in your hand, and that reminds people to keep their distance.”

      “And if they don’t?”

      “I always hope I don’t have to use it.” Ray shrugs, still holding the knife. “Down here it’s a bunch of crackheads, and you never know what they’ll do, how they’ll react, who they’ll take you for. So you never want to stand too close, never within arm’s reach.” Waving the knife as he speaks, he pushes Scott back a little, with his free hand.

      “I’m clean,” Scott says. “And I don’t know where it was I started asking for advice.”

      “I like you,” Ray says. “You got a stupid kind of charm. Kind of clueless, kind of reckless, you know what I’m saying?”

      “No, I don’t.” Scott stares out across the river.

      “Whether you asked for it and whether you need it,” Ray says. “Those two aren’t the same thing.”

      “Whatever,” Scott says. He claps his hands, trying to laugh it off, and as he shakes his head, looking down at his feet, all at once he sees the long black shape at the edge of the path. It’s pointed right at him.

      “Snake!” Shouting, he leaps sideways, almost into the river, and then farther back. At the cry, Ray slides to his feet and dances in the other direction, searching the ground with his eyes, his hands held out flat in front of him.

      “Where?” he says. “Where?”

      Scott is moving in slow motion now, which seems to have stopped the snake’s progress. He points to where it rests—almost two feet long, poised to strike, a shiny, slippery black.

      Laughing, Ray leans forward, then, and picks up the snake by the tail. He whips it closer, laughing even harder as Scott stumbles backward.

      “How was I to know it’s dead?” Scott says.

      Ray only smiles. Even barefoot, he is still a head taller than Scott. The fishing line is now wrapped around his ankles; the lead weight and the worm on its hook trail out behind him. Setting the snake back on the ground, he begins untangling himself.

      “Snake?” he says. “This is a damn eel. Caught it myself, half an hour ago. Was about to ask if you wanted to share a little with me. Good eating.”

      “That’s not right,” Scott says, recovering himself. “I remember what you said before, about the dirt in the water.”

      “Fish got gills, so they just pass it all through, they filter it out. That’s obvious.” Ray sits down again, lowering the line after checking his hook. “It’s not what’s in the water that you got to worry about,” he says. “It’s what’s up on the land.”

      “I can handle myself on the land,” Scott says.

      “Seen it all down here,” Ray is saying. “Found dead bodies, everything. You want to get yourself into that situation where a person sees you and doesn’t see you—where they know you don’t have anything they want.”

      “Are you even talking to me?” Scott says. “I didn’t ask for a lecture, and I never believed you were going to eat that eel.”

      “Those boots,” Ray says, shaking his head. He takes out a new pack of Kools, lights one, and shakes one out toward Scott, who doesn’t take it.

      Ray sets the cigarette down, still burning, and resumes his carving. It is quiet except the hollow sound of the cars, carried across the river, the rasp as the knife shaves curls from the stick. From time to time, the old man’s legs twitch, his arms jerk out straight; he pulls them back under control without a word, then picks up his cigarette and takes another drag.

      “All these buildings here with the green roofs,” Scott says. “What are those about? That part of Fairmount Park? I seen all the mansions, further up. I know all about that.”

      “City owns it,” Ray says. “Waterworks, used to be, long time ago. Can’t sleep in there, if that’s what you’re thinking.”

      “I got a place to stay,” Scott says.

      “They’ll get you for trespassing, on top of the vagrancy. After the water got so dirty, they used it for an aquarium, but the seals kept dying. Had a Olympic-type swimming pool on the other side, later; that was fresh water, chlorine bleach and all. Blue. Hurricane wrecked it in the ‘70s, but it’s still under there, with roots dripping from the walls and ceiling. I saw it. Found my way down there, one time, through a tunnel. Diving boards, rats all over the place, hardly any light coming down. It’s too damp, all around here, nowhere to sleep.”

      Scott just smiles, about to say he understands, that he won’t be tricked, and then water hits the path, ten feet away. One stream, and then another. Standing on the wall, high above, two young men piss off the edge. Scott cannot make out their faces.

      “What?” Ray shouts.

      The twin streams waver a little, but keep coming.

      “What’d you do if someone came over, whipped it out, and pissed in the middle of your living room?”

      “I’d wonder what the fuck kind of place I’m living in!” one of them shouts back. And then—after a few shakes, taking their time zipping up—they are gone.

      Ray looks out across the river, then up toward the wall again, muttering. He re-baits his hook, resuming the conversation as if there had been no interruption.

      “Mayor wants everyone in a shelter, and you know they make you stay in there if you take their food. Makes everyone feel safer, not to see anyone sleeping on the street, but in the shelter they lock you in and you can’t choose who’ll be sleeping, who’ll be lying awake next to you. Then there’s baby bird syndrome—too much gets given to you, you’ll never learn how to care for yourself. You know how it is.”

      “I don’t like you intimidating I’m homeless,” Scott says. “I got plenty of places to stay.”

      “You got a toothbrush sticking out your back pocket,” Ray says. He has untied the fishing line from his toe and is winding it around two crossed sticks. “Man, I’m not riding you—that’s nothing to be ashamed of. You’re kind of sensitive, aren’t you? Doesn’t matter where you sleep, it’s the same all over again. Lonely.”

      “This is right what I want to be doing,” Scott says, “at this point—whatever’s next will be building on it. I’ll be carrying all this, all my experiences. I got a lot behind me, and all sorts of hopes out in front. You listening to me?”

      “Obvious,” Ray says. He rocks his body forward and farts. “That is obvious.”

      “That was flat philosophy,” Scott says. “You wouldn’t know obvious.”

      Standing, Ray steps into his sandals. He tightens his belt, tucking in the loose end like he is putting a sword in a scabbard. Turning, he steps back toward the stone wall, which is covered in green vines. Scott had not noticed the bicycle leaning there. He watches as Ray untwists a length of wire from the back of it, then returns, picks up the eel, and pierces its mouth with the wire. The eel’s

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