“Body catchers.”
“Huh?”
“Body catchers.”
I look up at B., supine on the couch, who just shrugs.
“I think you mean body snatchers, D.,” I say loud enough to be heard across the room and above the din of pedestrian havoc twelve stories below the window at which D. is perched, looking occasionally down, more often up. “Invasion of the Body Snatchers. It was a film. Two versions. One from 1956, with Kevin McCarthy. The re-make with Donald Sutherland, 1978.”
“D.’s not up on pop culture,” B. says. “Maybe he means the limey documentary, Invasion of the Body Scratchers. More up his alley.”
“Body catchers,” D., now obviously piqued, says once again.
“Apparently not,” I say in mindless confirmation. “Not pop culture. Not even the BBC.”
“A Sky One production,” D. says. “BSkyB’s Sky One.”
“Whew!” I say. “D. may not be up on his pop culture, but he’s sure up on Brit subculture.
“This is the invasion of the body catchers,” D. says. “Not a film. Not a documentary. Just fact.”
“What fact for fuck’s sake are you talking about, D.?” B. asks.
D. initially says nothing, letting only his head speak – up, down; then up again, down again. “Come and see for yourselves,” he mumbles.
B. and I are still coming down from a break night. I can’t speak for B., but my limbs feel like lead. I can’t be bothered to get up and go see much of anything. Instead, I reach for a bomber.
After a long pause, during which D.’s attention has been fixed on something down at street level, I hear him speak again – though more to himself than to B. or me. “Oops. That one must’ve left home without it. Too bad.”
“Never leave home without it,” I say – again in mindless confirmation.
“For all the rest, there’s MasterCard,” B. says.
The three of us are just driveling now. Our all-night party of birdie powder has laid to waste any speed bumps of real intelligence and has paved our minds for one, long tape-loop of made-on-Madison ads. MOMADS – or simply MADS, I think to myself, always on the prowl for a spry acronym.
From down below, I can hear a cheap public address system calling all sinners to the Lord. Equally mindful drivel, but not so annoying as the shrill clang of police cars, EMT vehicles and fire engines – now long gone.
The shadow of what looks like a giant bird drops right in front of our window and passes quickly into and out of white space. D.’s immediate reflex is to pull his head in and duck – only to put it right back out again and look down. I can just barely hear what sounds like a bag of wet cement hitting the sidewalk twelve stories below, then watch as D.’s knees buckle – though only for an instant. “Yikes!” is as much as he has to say about the splatter.
“Wazzup?” B. asks.
“They missed him,” D. says by way of recondite commentary. “The body catchers. They’re on the other side of the street – where the real action is.” D. chuckles. “Uh-oh. Here come the purse ‘n’ poodle brigades.”
“What the fuck’re you talking about now?” I ask.
B. guffaws. “Purse ‘n’ poodle brigades? What, D., are your goddamned purse ‘n’ poodle brigades?”
“Used to be purse or pussy brigades. Woman goes out on the sly to buy pork ‘n’ beans for herself or the little ones, she’s surrounded. But it ain’t the cavalry riding in to offer comfort and aid. She gets to hand over her purse. If she hasn’t got one – well, use your own crayons to fill in that picture.”
“D.’s been doing some bad blow,” B. says. “D. imagines himself in a re-make of Night of the Living Dead.
“Women don’t dare anymore,” D. says. “I haven’t seen anything but buffers on the street in weeks.”
“Ah, c’mon—!” I say. “You’re shittin’ us.”
“Nope. True. Now it’s just guys. Hungry guys. Real hungry. Way-beyond-interested-in-a-blowjob hungry guys.”
“So, what’s up with the women and children? Gone to the ‘burbs?”
“Where’ve you been, good humor man? With your head up your ass? There ain’t no ‘burbs left. No suburbs, no exurbs, no hamlets or frilly little townships. They were the first to go – or don’t you follow the news?”
“What news?”
“Street news, twinkle-toes.”
“Street news is what I get right along with my stash – kind of a value-added.”
“So, tell us, then. What’s the beat on the street?”
“Places like Greenwich, Cos Cob, Darien – gone in an afternoon. Rye and Mamaroneck went without even a fight – town fathers in each gave the pie away in exchange for a guarantee their lives and wives would be spared. Rumor is, they bargained for their kids’ lives, too, but couldn’t make the deal stick. All that fresh young meat went instead to barbeque – after a bit of basting and tasting, that is.”
“Who’s speaking now, D., you or the street?” B. says.
“Little Madeleines, they say, are quite marvelous in marinade. Or is it ‘in marmalade?’ I forget.”
“You’re still tripping, D,” I say. “You gotta take a break from that shit.”
“I’m sober as a kite,” D. says as he looks pointedly at me. “The only real fight, by the way, is going on in places like downtown Hartford, across the park in Spanish Harlem, in the projects on the Lower East Side, and out in Bushwick and East New York. Places where they’ve got nothing to lose – so they’re gonna fight to keep that nothing.”
“Fucking niggers,” B. says.
“Got nothing to do with race, bro’,” D. says. “We’s all the same shade o’ blue now. And so, it’s every nigga for hisself.”
“Whadya call it then, ass-wipe?”
“Revenue re-distribution. Or at least re-distribution of the means of production. An old Marxist concept. Problem is, there ain’t nothing like production anymore. No production of nothing, nowhere – nada de nada. It’s dead. As is transportation. Distribution, too. Only thing left is what others’ve got and that you kin get your rascally hands on. Hey, wanna try my ATM card?” D. asks before nearly collapsing in a pool of his own bilious laughter.
“Dumb fuck,” B. deadpans. “Marx and Marxists crashed and burned eons ago. Pass me a blanket, will you?” B. says to me. “We’re outta blow.”
I lift up the skirt of my little Dutch girl tea canister and put three feelie fingers up inside. “Looks like we’re also outta blankets, B. You gonna have to run downstairs and find yousself a supply wagon.”
“Yeah, fine,” B. says. “Will do – just as soon as I find out a bit more about these purse ‘n’ poodle brigades.” B. turns the hansom of his attention back to D. “All ‘isms’ are dead, D. Died out with Rock ‘n’ Roll – or maybe when the Berlin Wall came tumbling down. Didn’t you read Fukuyama?”
“Very funny, B. Fuck Fukuyama. Fukuyama didn’t read Hegel – at least not adequately and sufficiently,” D. says, inverting two middle fingers as if to subvert his own little stab at esoterica. “What Fukuyama failed to recognize was that one ‘ism’ survives them all – or did, and will, until the last of us is truly history.”
“And what might that be?” I ask as I drop the Dutch girl’s skirt back in place and give it a pleasurable pat.
“Solipsism,” D. says with finality.
I’m only sorry neither B. nor I had the chance to introduce his pronouncement with a snarky drum-roll.
“Whatever, D.,” B. says. “Back to basics. This business of purse ‘n’ poodles brigades. Please, enlighten us.”
“Yeah, so what’s with that, D.?” I say. “And, while you’re at it, what’s with your fucking body catchers?”
D.’s eyes turn back to the street. “Purse ‘n’ poodle?” he asks. “What do I know? I’m just a dumb fuck, right?”
“Get over yourself, D. Just answer the freaking question.”
“Well, we’ve covered ‘purse,’ right? No pursie, no mercy.”
“Meaning?”
“Meaning that if a guy ain’t got the do-re-mi to bargain with the brigade, he’s dog meat. Meat for a bright and shiny pack of poodles.”
“You’re a sick fuck, D. Dumb and sick.”
“Yeah, D. A real sick fuck.”
“You think so? Come here and see for yourselves.”
B. and I walk over to the window and take up positions to either side of D. I scan the street below. It looks like the movie set of some kind of goddamned urban warfare, though without folks in Kevlar manning cannons or ducking down behind sandbags. There’s blood on the sidewalk – or maybe just a lot of shiny red graffiti; I can’t really tell from this distance.
“What’s going on, D.?” B. asks.
“Just shut up and watch, fuck-face.”
We’re standing there – just standing there for what seems like forever – and nothing is happening. I’m about to turn around and hook myself up to some blue sky blond when the raincoat wings of a giant something-or-other come fluttering down out of nowhere from above and drop right before my eyes. I quick stick my head out the window and see the winged thing land on the sidewalk in splat time flat. As if they might’ve just jumped a turnstile, four guys from out of the shadows are on it. They flip the body over and rifle through his pockets, but raincoat’s not resisting this particular arrest. As a matter of routine, I suppose, one of the four is reading from what looks to me like a police manual. The other three pause dutifully, look up to the fourth who shrugs when the raincoat gives no answer. Miranda Rights? I wonder. Nice touch.
Next, they tear the clothes off him and conduct a quick search of their booty. What? For labels for Christ’s sake? All of his clothes get chucked into a pile before they grab his limbs, grunt in chorus “One, two, three” – and heave-ho. His two arms splinter out of their sockets no problem; his legs, however, show artful resistance. The foursome regroup on the two legs to chant the same-old, same-old “One, two, three.” This time, both femurs unhinge from their hip sockets like a marionette’s – no muss, no fuss.
One of the four brigadiers reaches with serious business in mind into his own overcoat, withdraws a machete long and dry as a billabong, hacks off an arm, then moves around full of purpose to hack off the remaining three limbs, chop-chop. That’s when I see the dogs. Salivating – if white foam from a dog’s mouth can be called ‘saliva.’
They move in. The chopper-man throws them a bone, as it were – and they get all bow-wow with it.
I suddenly feel desperate for a blunt in the absence of something more substantial, and step back from the window.
“Got milk?” I ask. “If not, I’m gonna watch some ‘Animal Planet.’ I can’t stomach any more of this shit.”
“What’s the issue?” D. asks. “This is your pop culture. This is your reality T.V. So, what’s the problem with your stomach?”
“Far out!” B. says to no one in particular – almost like the whisper of an arrow. I follow his line of sight to the other side of the street, where I see that three men have just caught a window jumper. They’re frisking him – at least it would appear they’re frisking him – but coming up empty-handed. They look angry, betrayed, are clearly shouting at him; but I can’t make out what they’re saying because angry dogs are yelping, screaming their own canine obscenities, nipping at – no, actually tearing chunks of flesh out of the man’s legs. Now, he’s the one who’s screaming, though not exactly in anger. One of the three body catchers rips the man’s shoe and sock off, shoves the sock into his mouth to muffle his complaint.
The dogs go for the man’s exposed limb. One of them emerges from the pack with a foot and half an ankle in its mouth, and skitters off. The others pause to watch his retreat – but at the smell of blood and raw flesh, renew their attack without so much as ‘beg pardon.’ The body catchers push the man to his knees, jerk his head back, yell encouragement to the rest of the pack. As the dogs – teeth bared – lunge at the man’s nose, lips, cheeks and eyes, I decide to give my curiosity a breather.
“What is it?” I say as I start to move away from the window. “What does it mean?”
“The apocalypse,” D. says. “Till now, this business of jumping out of windows at the start of the Great Depression in the last century? Just apocryphal – a myth. But no more. People believe it – just as they believe Reality T. V. and the tabloids. And so, they’re mimicking.
“This, however, is no myth. This is true. We’re out of oil. We’ll soon be out of food. And then out of water – except, don’t ya know, for the Atlantic, which will shortly be pouring into and over this little island and others just like it. With any luck, the sea will take us first – unless, of course, you’d now care to jump and take your chances with the body catchers and their—,” D. leaves the end of his thought unspoken as he beckons me back to the window.
“D. likes to use words like ‘apocryphal,’” B. says apropos of nothing. “‘Makes him feel important, smart. And important’s really useful when the neighborhood’s playing musical chairs at the edge of the abyss. When that same hood’s so far down the pike from decline, decline looks like up.”
“Oh, can it, B.!” I say.
“Can it for the planet,” B. answers. I’m big on MADS; B.’s big on jingoes and rhymes. Together, we could be a team and start our own ad agency. If only—. But maybe not today.
“I need a blunt,” I say, self-mockingly crestfallen at the thought of this window of opportunity that’s just slammed down upon my eager fingers – figuratively speaking, of course. The other window’s still open, and D.’s still perched upon its hoary ledge.
“Blunt’s the last thing you need,” D. says. “Unless, of course, you wanna go on out to the street and trade. But what’ve you got to trade?”
“Nothing,” I say, still crestfallen. “Not a goddamned thing. Unless charm—?”
“Hah! Gotcha!” sneaks up and out of D. like a speed-trap. “Hey, you in the leopard-spotted bikini,” D. now shouts down to the street. “Wanna trade nookie for charm?” I glance over – just out of curiosity – and just long enough to see a hooker look up at the window and give D. the finger. “There’s your answer, Prince Charming.”
Problem is, D.’s shout and the hooker’s gesture have drawn attention to both players in this little sidewalk sideshow. Body catchers from across the street run to the base of our building, reach up to implore D. to jump and be saved. The P. A. system at the corner is blaring out the same message from a disembodied amplifier, the preacher-man having long since vanished from sight. The pack of dogs rampage down and across the Zebra crossing to the hooker; leap; take her down to her knees – a position she’s usually more comfortable in trading her “biscuits” for someone else’s beamers. Her bikini bottom’s off in a snatch and now no more than doggie dental floss – and then, just as soon as the dogs get their muzzles into it and into her face, whatever may’ve been for sale underneath or through the hole in that face ain’t enough to attract bids even at a buffer’s fire sale. She might’ve screamed – had she managed to hold onto a throat and larynx long enough to scream out of – but both went the way of the bikini bottom, its contents, her mouth. Dogs – so I’m told – know no limit to appetite.
“What about the Upper East Side?” I ask – subdued, but now calculating my odds of escape.
“Where do you think the poodles came from, Einstein?” D. answers my question with his own. “Upper East Siders got out while the getting was still good. Whadaya think got them to the Upper East Side in the first place, huh? Good looks? Charisma?”
“Jesus!” I say.
“No, wrong. And too late to come to Jesus anyway, amigo. Needless to say, he also ain’t comin’ to us.”
“What are they gonna do?” I ask.
“Who’s they?” D. asks.
“The authorities,” I say – though feeling a little weak in the knees even as I say it.
“Since when did we have any use for the authorities?” B. asks – a rare moment of insight and honesty I might’ve hankered for myself had I not lost the map, or the clock, years earlier.
“What’s left then?” I ask. “What can we do?”
“Read Hegel.”
“Hegel’s for heroes,” B. says with a smirk.
“No,” D. says matter-of-factly. “Sidney Hook’s for heroes.”
“Forget Hook and Hegel,” I say. “Serious—.”
“Seriously? Okay, then. Learn Mandarin.”
“Mardarin? Is that like Tarot?” I ask.
D. chuckles. “Yeah, smart guy – like Tarot.”
