spots that cover his chest—this is my destiny. First I bring him to the clothing room to pick out a complete new outfit—a pair of gray wool pants, not covering his ankles, as is his style; high lace boots; a thermal t-shirt; three wool sweaters; a long snorkel jacket with fur trim around the hood. To Kwell George can take an hour or two—first he needs to strip, then shower, then the lotion needs to seep into his skin, then he has to shower again. I sit beneath the fluorescents, listening to how they tried to burn him at the stake but he wouldn’t catch fire, his big hands still working his flesh, searching for his dying minions. Nothing in the shelter makes more sense to me, makes me understand my purpose more, than to kill bugs on a homeless man’s flesh, to dress him well in donated, cast-off clothes, to see him the next day, laughing beside a burning barrel.
button man
(1964) While in the Palm Beach County Jail my father’s job will be to sit in a booth and work the switch that lets people in and out of the front gate. Button Man. In from the outside, out from the inside. If he lets a man escape he will have to serve that man’s time, that’s what they tell him. The Button Man will be the title of his novel. I’m too young to know what prison is, nearly too young to know what a father is, or that mine is gone.
He thinks (approximately):
My father saw bodies falling and he imagined a machine. The Titanic went down while he was drawing his plans. They ran for the lifeboats but there weren’t enough, not enough room on deck for that many lifeboats. My father’s invention could be stacked like cordwood, he showed me how with a little model he made—simply cut the line and they all float free. A seat in the dark ocean for every man, woman and child.
He thinks:
Self-made man, success at twenty-eight, my father saw the ship sinking, saw bodies falling, and he made a net to catch them. I’m proud of that. He could have invented anything—the machine gun, dynamite—killed millions. Ten years later he made me, an afterthought. Already his prototype was in production, the patent sold to seven countries, already he was known. And I was no one. Not yet.
He thinks:
We never got along, I never understood why. I was the only one who did any work around that goddamn house—I filled the oil tanks, mowed the lawn—my two half-brothers never lifted a twig. I stood beside my father while he had a new and improved raft dropped over and over from a crane into Scituate Harbor, perfecting it. He was madly in love with my sister—me, never.
He thinks:
Prisons are not unlike ships—men of all types huddle in the hold, some stroll freely above, all aware it’s going down. I too see bodies falling—habeus corpus, deliver the body of _____, and the sheriff comes, leading _____ in shackles. Maybe this is the root of the anxiety—something terrible is about to happen. Or nothing good is about to happen.
Sherrie writes:
3 April 1964
Dear Buckie,
All your pals were sorry to hear about your misfortune, but everyone expects great things to come out of it. I know how good it must feel to have the writing urge and be able to develop it. Please, Buckie, do some writing, this is your chance. I told the gang about your ideas for your novel, and they can’t wait to see it.
Pogo writes:
13 May 1964
Barracuda,
You’re sorely missed back here on the Hill.
I’ve been dating a guy the last couple weeks who thinks a lot like you do—that he is bright and can’t see himself taking a mickey-mouse job. That the world owes him a living. He considers himself a writer, like you, but I sense he’s going to wait until it’s too late before he really gets to work. When he does try, wine and poor living are going to be his weakness, what ate away at his strength. He’ll die in some gutter like all the other poor useless bums.
I only hope that you will utilize some of the intelligence that you innately possess to try to
button man
(1964) While in the Palm Beach County Jail my father’s job will be to sit in a booth and work the switch that lets people in and out of the front gate. Button Man. In from the outside, out from the inside. If he lets a man escape he will have to serve that man’s time, that’s what they tell him. The Button Man will be the title of his novel. I’m too young to know what prison is, nearly too young to know what a father is, or that mine is gone.
He thinks (approximately):
My father saw bodies falling and he imagined a machine. The Titanic went down while he was drawing his plans. They ran for the lifeboats but there weren’t enough, not enough room on deck for that many lifeboats. My father’s invention could be stacked like cordwood, he showed me how with a little model he made—simply cut the line and they all float free. A seat in the dark ocean for every man, woman and child.
He thinks:
Self-made man, success at twenty-eight, my father saw the ship sinking, saw bodies falling, and he made a net to catch them. I’m proud of that. He could have invented anything—the machine gun, dynamite—killed millions. Ten years later he made me, an afterthought. Already his prototype was in production, the patent sold to seven countries, already he was known. And I was no one. Not yet.
He thinks:
We never got along, I never understood why. I was the only one who did any work around that goddamn house—I filled the oil tanks, mowed the lawn—my two half-brothers never lifted a twig. I stood beside my father while he had a new and improved raft dropped over and over from a crane into Scituate Harbor, perfecting it. He was madly in love with my sister—me, never.
He thinks:
Prisons are not unlike ships—men of all types huddle in the hold, some stroll freely above, all aware it’s going down. I too see bodies falling—habeus corpus, deliver the body of _____, and the sheriff comes, leading _____ in shackles. Maybe this is the root of the anxiety—something terrible is about to happen. Or nothing good is about to happen.
Sherrie writes:
3 April 1964
Dear Buckie,
All your pals were sorry to hear about your misfortune, but everyone expects great things to come out of it. I know how good it must feel to have the writing urge and be able to develop it. Please, Buckie, do some writing, this is your chance. I told the gang about your ideas for your novel, and they can’t wait to see it.
Pogo writes:
13 May 1964
Barracuda,
You’re sorely missed back here on the Hill.
I’ve been dating a guy the last couple weeks who thinks a lot like you do—that he is bright and can’t see himself taking a mickey-mouse job. That the world owes him a living. He considers himself a writer, like you, but I sense he’s going to wait until it’s too late before he really gets to work. When he does try, wine and poor living are going to be his weakness, what ate away at his strength. He’ll die in some gutter like all the other poor useless bums.
I only hope that you will utilize some of the intelligence that you innately possess to try to
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