Food really mellows me out.
I gritted my teeth while my brain went Guy walks into the ambulance ramp stabs you in the goddamn emergency gut says I need an immediate stab in the garbage in the goddamn walk-in ambulance says just a minute looks in the back says I think I’ve got a stab in the goddamn walk-in immediate ambuloaf ambulamp octoloaf oafulope.
“Oafyoulope!” I screamed, tears in my eyes.
Minna was barely a man then himself, of course, though he seemed one to us.
'You probably ought to know, Lionel's a freak," said Tony, his voice vibrant with self-regard.
"Yeah, well, you're all freaks, if you don't mind me pointing it out,” said Minna "No parents—or am I mixed up?"
Silence.
"Finish your beer," said Minna tossing his can past us, into the back of the van.
And that was the end of our first job for Frank Minna.
With Minna's encouragement I freed myself to ape the rhythm of his overheard dialogues, his complaints and endearments, his for-the-sake-of arguments. And Minna loved my effect on his clients and associates, the way I'd unnerve them, disrupt some schmooze with an utterance, a head jerk, a husky "Eatmebailey!" I was his special effect, a running joke embodied.
"This is exciting for you, Ma? I got all of motherless Brooklyn up here for you. Merry Christmas."
Minna Men wear suits. Minna Men drive cars. Minna Men listen to tapped lines. Minna Men stand behind Minna hands in their pockets, looking menacing. Minna Men carry money. Minna Men collect money. Minna Men don't ask questions. Minna Men answer phones. Minna Men pick up packages. Minna Men are clean-shaven. Minna Men follow instructions. Minna Men try to be like Minna but Minna is dead.
Music had never made much of an impression on me until the day in 1986 when, sitting in the passenger seat of Minna's Cadillac, I first heard the single "Kiss" squirting its manic way out of the car radio. […] It so pulsed with Tourettic energies that I could surrender to its tormented, squeaky beat and let my syndrome live outside my brain for once, live in the air instead.
(in Tourette dreams you shed your tics)
(or your tics shed you)
(and you go with them, astonished to leave yourself behind)
"What's to be good at?" I said.
"You have no idea. Breathing for starters. And thinking, except it's not supposed to be thinking.”
"Thinking about not thinking?"
"Not thinking about it. One Mind, they call it.”
The woman on the line did it all by rote, and so did I: billing information, name of deceased, dates, survivors, until we got to the part where I gave out a line or two about who Minna was supposed to have been.
"Beloved something," said the woman, not unkindly. "It's usually Beloved something."
Beloved Father Figure?
"Or something about his contributions to the community," she suggested.
“Just say detective," I told her.
"I've got Tourette's," I said.
"Yeah, well, threats don't work with me.”
"Tourette's," I said.
I can't own a cat because my behaviors drive them insane. I know because I tried. I had a cat, gray and slim, half the size of Kimmery's, named Hen for the chirping and cooing sounds she made… […] She enjoyed my attentions at first, my somewhat excessive fondling. […] But from the very first Hen was disconcerted by my head-jerks and utterances and especially by my barking. She'd tum her head to see what Id jumped at, to see what I was fishing for in the air with my hand. Hen recognized those behaviors—they were supposed to be hers. She never felt free to relax.
See me now, at one in the morning, stepping out of another cab in front of the Zendo, checking the street for cars that might have followed, […] moving with my hands in my jacket pockets clutching might-be-guns-for-all-they-know, collar up against the cold like Minna, unshaven like Minna now, too… […] That's who I was supposed to be, that black outline of a man in a coat, ready suspicious eyes above his collar, shoulders hunched, moving toward conflict. Here's who I was instead: that same coloring-book outline of a man, but crayoned by the hand of a […] child.
On second thought, there is a vaguely Tourettic aspect to the New York City subway, especially late at night-that dance of attention, of stray gazes, in which every rider must engage. And there's a lot of stuff you shouldn't touch in the subway, particularly in a certain order: this pole and then your lips, for instance. And the tunnel walls are layered, like those of my brain, with expulsive and incoherent language—
"I'm a detective, Kimmery."
“You keep saying that, but I don't know. I just can't really accept it.”
"Why not?"
"I guess I thought detectives were more, uh, subtle."
"Maybe you're thinking of detectives in movies or on television.” I was a fine one to be explaining this distinction. "On TV they're all the same. Real detectives are as unalike as fingerprints, or snowflakes."
"Roshi says this thing about guilt," she said after a minute. “That it's selfish, just a way to avoid taking care of yourself. Or thinking about yourself. I guess that's sort of two different things. I can't remember."
"Please don't quote Gerard Minna to me on the subject of guilt," I said. "That's a little hard to swallow under the present circumstances.”
“Will you take my order, Julia?"
"Why don't you go away, Lionel? Please.” It was pitying and bitter and desperate at once. She wanted to spare us both. I had to know from what.
"I want to try some uni. Some—orphan ocean ice cream!—some urchin eggs. See what all the fuss is about."
It all happened at once. There were six of them, a vision to break your heart. I was almost glad Minna was gone so he'd never have to face it, how perfectly the six middle-aged Japanese men of Fujisaki filled the image the Minna Men had always strained toward but had never reached and never would reach… […] They were all we could never be no matter how Minna pushed us: absolutely a team, a unit, their presence collective like a floating island of charisma and force.
Is guilt a species of Tourette's? Maybe. It has a touchy quality, I think, a hint of sweaty fingers. Guilt wants to cover all the bases, be everywhere at once, reach into the past to tweak, neaten, and repair. Guilt like Tourettic utterance flows uselessly, inelegantly from one helpless human to another, contemptuous of perimeters, doomed to be mistaken or refused on delivery. Guilt, like Tourette's, tries again, learns nothing.
I needed her to see that we were the same, disappointed lovers of Frank Minna, abandoned children.
Then somewhere, sometime, a circuit closed. It was a secret from me but I knew the secret existed. A man—two men?—found another man. Lifted an instrument, gun, knife? Say gun. Did a job. Took care of a job. Collected a debt of life. This was the finishing of something between two brothers, a transaction of brotherly love-hate, something playing out, a dark, wobbly melody.
In detective stories things are always, always the detective casting his exhausted, caustic gaze over the corrupted permanence of everything and thrilling you with his sweetly savage generalizations. This or that runs deep or true to form, is invariable, exemplary. Oh sure. Seen it before will see it again. Trust me on this one. Assertions and generalizations are, of course, a version of Tourette's. A way of touching the world, handling it, covering it with confirming language.
That was me, Lionel. hurtling through those subterranean tunnels, visiting the labyrinth that runs under the world, which everyone pretends is not there. You can go back to pretending if you like. I know I will, though the Minna brothers are a part of me, deep in my grain, deeper than mere behavior, deeper even than regret, Frank because he gave me my life and Gerard because, though I hardly knew him, I took his away. I'll pretend I never rode that train, but I did.
Ullman? Never met the guy. Just like Bailey. They were just guys I never happened to meet. To the both of them and to you I say: Put an egg in your shoe, and beat it. Make like a tree, and leave. Tell your story walking.
