LITMIR.BIZ

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and then laughed silently at the startled face of the suit walking by.

      Whoa there! Fancy suit. The kind guys got married in, only this one even fit. Looked weird here where the students and even the profs slouched up and down the street all day in jeans and tee shirts.

      Wedding suit shied away like a scared ole rabbit, actually thunking his hand with a little donk on the copy store window on the other side of the sidewalk. Wedding suit looked sideways at him, probably wondering if some bad, black dude was gonna hold him up for his fancy watch. He watched with glee as disbelief registered on wedding suit’s pale face.

      White dude? A homeless white dude? He could read wedding suit like he had the words printed on his face.

      The vendor had to bend at the waist to keep the laughter in. It hurt his stomach. Damn stomach. Damn wedding suit.

      Hate to see one of your own on the street? A few bad deals and wham! You’d need a corner of your own.

      He bent over a little more. Took a deep breath, then straightened. Wedding suit was hustling away, shoulders squared up, smooth cloth getting even smoother on that snobby back. Smooth rich suit once more. But he’d been scared.

      “StreetWise!” The sound floated down the street after wedding suit’s back and got sucked into the ears of a bearded guy with a sweatshirt and jeans on. A regular. A guy who lived in the area. Bought papers. Not every day. Like mosta the regulars, had their days when they bought, days they didn’t. This guy was a twice a weeker. Well, four times now since he’d had this corner only two weeks.

      Bearded sweatshirt stopped. Looked at him. Direct, like he was a person.

      “Seventeenth today,” he said. “New paper?”

      The vendor nodded. He could talk when he wanted to. But lots of the time it was so much easier to listen to himself in his head. Then he could say what he wanted. It came out so smooth, so cool in his head.

      Bearded sweatshirt handed over two bills. No chit chat. He liked that about bearded sweatshirt. He passed over a paper.

      “Any news about Jimmy in here?”

      Oh shit, a question. Wait, wait. A shrug might do it. He bent his head and tried a shrug, but didn’t look up to see how it went over. He looked down. Saw his shoes. His Nikes. Actual Nikes. Another regular had given them to him less than a week ago. He loved them. Checked them frequently to be sure no dirt had gotten on them. No, they were still fine.

      The man waited a minute and then quietly said goodbye and left.

      Okay. Okay.

      Everything’s fine.

      “StreetWise.” He said it softly to the emptying street. Just so he could show himself he’d got that word great. It’d come out perfect.

      The practice he’d done with that word when he’d first heard about becoming a vendor from another guy at a free breakfast at the downtown Y. He’d even done that breathing they’d taught him so long ago in that special class in school. But Mama’d put a stop to that.

      “My son’s no retard. Get him outta that retard class!” She’d cut up somethin’ fierce that day. He never did find out how she’d known they’d moved him to a special class. Special. Not retard. But there was no talkin’ to Mama. He never talked to Mama. Course, he hardly ever spoke to anybody, but Mama was the one who’d belt him if he stuttered. Other folks’d just look embarrassed and impatient. Well, he’d fixed that.

      “StreetWise!” He said it louder. Enjoying the word. Even Mama’d have to sit back and admire the way he said it.

      “StreetWise!” Traffic was picking up. Talk louder.

      From his corner across from the campus, he could see something was happening way down to the right, three blocks away from the big group of buildings in the middle. A new building was going up there—big, big sucker. Huge. The beams rose high into the darkening sky, looking like the bars of a prison built for Godzilla. But it was just a prison with bars and no walls. Prison bars so, so high. But no walls. It was a prison that would leak Godzilla out all over the city and the city would be destroyed.

      He watched down the street as long, thin black cars stopped and more fancy black suits got out. If he squinted, they looked like really dressed up ants. Then the fancy black ants reached into the cars and pulled out lady ants. Expensive lady ants in all colors.

      Why were all these fancy ants marching into the prison building that wasn’t even finished? Because they’re stupid, that’s why. It was so funny it made his stomach hurt again.

      He’d better get back to business. He hadn’t done so well this last hour.

      “StreetWise!”

      Down the street the other way he could see another one of the fancy suits coming down the sidewalk. This one had his lady in tow. They musta parked around the corner. The woman was sure easy on the eyes. Young. A lot younger than fancy suit. He laughed his silent, invisible laugh. They were too close for him to risk any sound.

      Her hair was long and blond. Not out of a bottle, he’d bet. The store lights made it look smooth like a veil over a church statue. Her clothes musta been painted on her they fit that good—and lots and lots of leg. And great shoes. He marveled at how women could stand up on those teeny, tiny kinds of shoes with the straps and the high, high heels. He loved those kinds of shoes. That was one thing bad about this corner. All the women wore Nikes like his. Shit, if he wanted to see Nikes, he could just look down.

      “StreetWise.” He said it again, but quietly. Just for the form of the thing. The rich never bought papers. Everybody knew that. They’d no money just loose in their pockets—and bring out that wallet? No sir, no sir. Let the poor dude see all that cash and them credit cards? No sir. No sir.

      Besides, these two were not exactly honeymooners. She was angry in that thin woman pinched nose way they got. And the suit? He was real, real aggravated. Also tryin’ to hide it. Walking like he had a poker up his butt. Stiff. All like, ‘I’m bein’ pushed and I don’t let nobody push me.’ Cept of course this little church statue could call the tune to any guy she chose any time. The legs alone could lead a guy straight to hell and he’d pay for the trip and enjoy it.

      “Would you please hurry up!” She spoke without hardly moving her painted statue lips. Oh, if all church Madonnas looked and moved like that the Catholics’d be building churches instead of shutting them or letting them be turned into restaurants like what’d happened on the old street where he used to panhandle before he got to be a vendor. A restaurant. He still felt the shock of it when a construction guy had told him what was going on. Why’d God let that happen? God must be a chef now. Stop that thought right now, he told himself sternly.

      The fancy suit moved like he was the rusted Tin Man. Oh how he loved that movie. In that hospital they’d called him a flit for liking it so much, but so what? He’d watched it anyway. Now he even owned his own copy, though the shelter had no VCR that worked. But still, he owned it. Locked up in his own locker. Safe.

      He watched the rusted Tin Man walk of the angry suit. It wasn’t the same, but he still enjoyed it. Poor rusted rich Tin Man. Bein’ forced down the street toward a half-finished prison by a pissed off Madonna. Didn’t that just beat all?

      They’d passed him now without a glance. He watched their backs. Nah, he watched her butt sway and the Tin Man’s butt stay put, kind of enjoying the contrast.

      “Dwayne, how’s it going tonight?”

      He snapped his head around. His name!

      He calmed some when he saw who it was. He’d seen her around a lot. Bought papers. A regular. His head just came up to her shoulder. Just like Mama. Not like mama. Push that thought right outta there.

      What should he do? She’d asked him a question!

      “StreetWise?” He made it a question like it was sort of like part of a conversation. That was so smart of him. He quivered with his own smarts.

      Dwayne,

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