After the precinct trouncing Saturday night, the Skunks, sans Hattie, regrouped at Tompkins Square Park. No one was sure of what next to do. All they were sure of was that they just gotten their asses kicked. That, and Hattie was missing.
When she didn’t show by Sunday, the group was in disarray. Word started that she’d been arrested, or that she’d committed suicide by licking the charged third rail on the F subway line, or that she’d found God and was now part of a cult that served free lunches of rice and macaroni throughout the state of Indiana.
Word was that Hattie was gone.
The Skunks searched the usual spots—the park benches, the public library, the places easy to shoplift from—but they didn’t find her.
Sunday night, an argument broke out as to where to look next, what to do. No one could agree. The Skunks broke apart, splintered into two groups, one of four people, the other of two. The group of four dubbed themselves the New Skunks and fought over who’d be the leader. May and Torc, the remaining two, sorted through restaurant trash and had sex in a stairwell of a building on Avenue C.
By Monday morning, the New Skunks had splintered again, then once more before noon, until there was no longer a group, only four individuals, each seething at the other.
After a meal scavenged from the trash of a Mexican restaurant, May and Torc announced their love for each other. “I don’t know how to say this,” Torc told May as they curled up together under the FDR viaduct running next to the East River Park. “I don’t know how to tell you, but I’ve never been happier than I am when I’m with you. And it isn’t just the sex,” he told her, rubbing himself against her. “It isn’t just the sex,” he said, reaching into the seat of her pants.
They talked of settling down, getting tattoos of each other’s names across their chests and moving to Austin, Texas, May’s home town, once they got enough money saved. “It’s great down there,” she told Torc. “Always warm, and everyone carries a gun.”
All evening, they planned for a future in Texas, a future together.
Now, heading down First Avenue toward Houston Street, Torc and May come upon McDonald’s trash, bags upon bags of it stacked on the curb. They tear them open, searching for food. “I hate what it does to my thighs,” May says, pulling out the remnants of a Big Mac, “but I just love the special sauce.” Torc laughs. They make each other laugh. Dirty and stinky and grimy, they make each other happy.
The McDonald’s manager rolls out of the restaurant, a broom in hand. “Get the fuck out of there,” he shouts, taking a swipe at them. They both spring back, out of reach.
“I want a refund,” Torc says, holding up a half eaten chicken sandwich. “I asked for no mayo. This has got mayo.” May finds that funny. The manager swings again, brooming Torc across the face.
“Ouch! All right, Mayor McCheese,” Torc says, retreating. Both he and May have an armful of scraps, burgers and fries and watery sodas. “Don’t get all Grimace on us, we’re just looking for a snack.”
The manager raises the broom. “Out. Before I call the cops.”
Torc and May head off with their carry-out.
At the corner, May stops. “Look,” May says, sticking two stale fries under her upper lip to form tusks. “I’m a walrus.”
“Guess what I am,” Torc says, taking in a mouthful of chocolate shake. He holds it in his cheeks.
“I don’t know,” May says, unable to figure out. “What?”
He spits the shake out, arching a foul brown spew into the street. “Lactose intolerant,” he says, his chin covered.
May howls, doubling at the waist. Coming up for air, her sight lands on something down the street. A couple. Approaching.
Her laughter chokes to a stop. “Jesus,” she says. The approaching man’s in leather, looks like he’s headlining a western band at a gay bar.
The woman she knows.
“What?” Torc asks, turning to see what she’s staring at.
“It’s Hattie,” May says, amazed.
Torc looks. “Holy shit,” he concurs. “It’s Hattie.”
Chapter 37