Kiss of the Wolf

BRUNO

Three guys walk into a bar. Roof collapses, kills ’em all. Turns out they had cancer.

Hard Luck stories. Poor Me stories. Isn’t It Sad stories. Isn’t it sad I had to do what I had to do? I looked the other way during kickbacks, I put less in the Sunday envelope, I hit my kid and now he’s got this stutter, my husband left me and I had to raise my three blind girls alone. Bruno, Bruno, poor Elena, poor Lucia, poor whoever, poor me, no one should have this much trouble. Bruno, Bruno, you’re so hardhearted. Isn’t it sad? I say, You got trouble? Too bad, my condolences, deal with it. There’s no trick to this. I’m not here as a therapist. This guy Darwin on TV had it right: you got too many legs, a fin out to here, teeth smaller than Harvey across the rock, you’re not gonna make it. And what is that? What? Bad luck? You pray all your life you don’t get luck like some people get. Guys with no eyes, guys whose whole families go down on some boat, guys who’re vegetables, get fed off a tray. People say, Bruno you wouldn’t be so hard it happened to you — I say, My father came over here, he was fourteen years old, knew four words of English — four — worked on the highways going in upstate for three days and a back-loader dumped a load of shale where he was standing, crushed his legs. Guy called, “All clear?” and my dad waved and stood there. My mother died of this simple thing because some Mick doctor couldn’t find his ass with both hands and a diagram. I’m forty-two years old, never got married, I’ve gone broke twice. Started up from nothing twice. Now I sell cars. You think I like selling cars? My life is a bowl of roses selling cars?

I came here, started working in the off-season. Everything was down. Sales were down. The economy was down. Inventory was down. Spirits were down, morale was down, the shade in my office was down. The desk they gave me, the drawers didn’t open. They probably figured, Guinea, he’s not gonna write anything, anyway. They told me I couldn’t use the coffee machine. I hadda go across the street. You imagine this? Bruno, it’s only an eight-cupper. Oh, I didn’t realize. You know what it’s like, you’re humping to sell the car, Gee, Mr. Dickhead, would you like a cuppa coffee? Okay, well, we’ll have to go across the street, see, because I got this disease and they don’t let me touch their fucking coffeepot. Gas shortage, oil shortage, money shortage, no beans for the soup: just the time to be selling ocean-liner Buicks in Bridgeport. I’m brand new at this, standing there in my — I got one suit, I change the shirt and ties day to day — and guys’re coming in without a pot to piss in, just looking for transportation, and I’m pushing station wagons with power sunroofs. Four doors you can land planes on. The whole world’s selling little Nip cars to Yupsters at eighty-percent markups and I’m selling V-8s to cane-dragging Sanka-sucking cottontops. But I sold. I sold to everybody. I sold to morons. I sold to kids. I sold to widows with bad eyesight. I sold to sharpies. I sold to Puerto Ricans. I sold to mulignons. I sold to family. I got my coffeepot. I drink their coffee now.

You don’t think I cut corners? You don’t think I did what I had to, to move inventory? You don’t think I lied to people? You don’t think I cheated people? Before we had a name for it, before we called it anything, we did it.

So now I hear, Bruno, you been lucky. You been doing good lately. Lately kiss my ass lately.

Bruno, you’re not for her, leave her alone, she’s had too much trouble.

Listen to this: I am the guy for her. I am the guy.

Bruno, she lost her husband. Hey, she lost her husband. Worse: the guy ran off and left her. She’s alone in the world. She’s gotta raise the kid by herself. It’s tough. Bruno, she doesn’t need you around, complicating things. I told her what the loan sharks used to tell me on Kissuth Street: Hey, I’m not here to observe your problem. I’m here to enlarge it.

Joanie and I go back to when we were kids on North Avenue. We go back to Blessed Sacrament. Years later, I told her I was the guy, when we were still kids. She put her hand right up to touch your mouth when you were talking. You could taste her.

What do I want from her? What are my intentions toward her? The days I don’t see her, the days I don’t hear about her, I draw her picture on the wall.