Oh, Play That Thing

  I jumped, and I grabbed as I jumped. Never grab the rear end, the hoboes said, but I didn’t have a choice. I was swung, and hit the side of the car, hard, but I held on and felt Rifle’s hair in my free fist. I had him, before he went under the wheel. I pulled him up and dropped him on the blind, made sure he was safe, and then I was gone – the pain caught up – no grip, between the cars, and I watched the train roll over.

  —Look for me!

  And days were gone before I knew who I was, and where, and what had happened.

  —I will!

  They were gone.

  * Hello; God be with you.

  * Good-night.

  * Goodbye.

  10

  She was everywhere. But never where I went.

  The Hoovervilles were full of her.

  —She busted them tractors, every one. Stopped them from breaking up them farms.

  At night, across the fires.

  —She organised that strike down Abilene. Got the marshals to turn their guns.

  I could track her by the stories.

  —She took one look at those boys, they turned right round, changed sides.

  But I couldn’t.

  The stories came from all directions; she was everywhere. Men who’d seen men shake her hand. Women who’d seen her walk into the river. Seen bullets melt, seen men kneel down before her.

  Our Lady of the Working Man. Our Lady of the Boxcar.

  Seen her walk right up to scabs.

  —Her little girl beside her.

  —Kind of glow off them.

  —Glow?

  —Word for it.

  Our Lady of the Pickers and the Dispossessed. Four million of them roaming, crawling the highways, riding the rails, heading west to be despised. Negroes and Okies Upstairs. Ten million, more, out of jobs. Out of farms and businesses. The strikers, squatters. The helpless and the hopeful.

  The first story I heard, I knew it was her. Even before Saoirse walked beside her.

  —Purty as her mama.

  I knew.

  Before I heard where she came from.

  —Some say she’s Irish.

  —Heard that said.

  —Or Scot.

  —Walked right into that bank.

  I knew it was her. I said nothing. I sat back. I’d put nothing into the pot. I’d no right to the fire. Just what heat came through the press of men and families who’d earned their right by adding beans or bad meat to the stew.

  I waited for the place, the name. I was ready to get up and leave. The second I heard it. I stood up – it got easier – and left, immediately. Abilene. Baring. Junction City. She was long gone, every time, the stories left behind. The same stories.

  —She walked right into that bank. All sweet and determined, and the young’n toting the carpet bag.

  And I heard them, many times.

  —When? I asked, once, twice. Until I understood.

  —When what, mister?

  —When did this happen?

  —Beginning of the hard times.

  —Time the black dust started blowing.

  —When?

  —Time the banks was doing that foreclosing.

  She was long gone, running with them.

  —This here money’s now the property of the Oklahoma Republican Army, she said. The young’n held up the bag. Cousin seed it. Stuffed. Like a hog before it meets the knife. —And it will be given right back to its rightful owners.

  She was gone.

  —And she marches straight out of there. And folks cheered, right there under the roof of the bank. Hands still holding air.

  But I kept looking.

  I understood. I knew: they were stories. They came from the people who told them. Desperate men made up their desperadoes. Their outlaws, their rebels and playboys. Men who robbed and got away with it, who fucked impossible women, who’d never been hardened by black wind and dust. Men like themselves, just bigger. Touchable, knowable – cousins, kin, from a town they’d all heard of. Pretty Boy Floyd. Clyde Barrow. Real men, robbing, making fools of the law and lawyers. And they got away with it for a while. I understood. The stories kept these people going. They took some of the heat off their shame, gave them back some self-respect. The teller was part of the story, and so were the listeners, and that was one of their own out there, doing all the winning. The stories were made at the fire. At the fires, fire to fire. Night after night. Boxcar to filling station. Across, up, down, America. Every night, they made up their survival.

  She was one of their own. She was their story. And I’d never find her, no more than I’d find Billy the Kid or the Croppy Boy. She was there, in the fire, their comfort, their courage and hope. Their story.

  But I kept going. I’d been one of those made-up men. Oh, he slipped through the night did the bold Henry Smart. I’d been in stories. I’d killed and loved, and I was real. I kept going. Because I saw her in the stories. She was out there, catching her breath, waiting for me to catch up. I heard her letters at the fires, read by the travellers, but sent to me. The Oklahoma Republican Army, the ambushes, the proclamations. The hints and similarities. It was Miss O’Shea out there, all over there, everywhere, with Saoirse, her apprentice rebel. Freeing America. The stories were full of her. She was telling me to catch up and to hurry. Look for me!

  And I saw the Wanted posters. On the walls of the sheriffs’ and marshals’ offices. I laughed the first time – Dead or Alive – and the second, and got a kicking for it, twice. Kathline O’Houlahan. I saw it, in the corner of a new-black eye, and I burst my shite laughing. They saw me looking at the poster – aka Dark Rosaleen.

  —What’s funny, friend? You know her?

  —Yeah.

  —Where is she?

  —On the ocean green, I said.

  They kicked; there was no one to stop them.

  Aka Lady O’Shea, O’Toole, O’Bannion, O’Neill. Hair: brown or red or grey. Possibly Irish. Age: 25 to 55. O’Moore, O’Carroll, O’Glick. All the names but no photograph. I laughed as they kicked the day out of me. Her poster was everywhere but I still didn’t know her name.

  Saoirse was there. With a young woman. Possibly her daughter. Known as Share O’Shea or Share-Share O’Glick. They were telling me to hurry. Hair: red or brown. Possibly Irish. Age: 14 to 25. Aka Freedom Smart.

  I listened out for Rifle. I leaned into the fire, waited for his name; I prayed and let myself burn. He wasn’t on the posters. And he wasn’t in the stories.

  —They have a boy with them?

  I tried to sound like one of them.

  —Boy?

  —Boy.

  —No sir.

  —Heard mention of no boy.

  —Just theyse two gals.

  I worried; I died. Where was he? She was keeping him out of trouble; I knew. But Rifle was too big for absence. Why wasn’t he there, at the start or the end of at least one story? Holding the horses, handing out dollars. I followed, and listened, for months, a year; I listened, heard nothing. But I wouldn’t grieve. I listened. I found a new fire, every night. I tried to get nearer. I met men and women I’d met before; I met them again, and again. I melted and froze, on the same day, in the same year. I got myself arrested; I became a loud vagrant, so they’d drag me in and I’d look for his name on the posters. I spent months in county jails and penitentiaries, there to read the posters. I was a slave, working for nothing on a judge’s stoop crops. I was one man on a chain gang. I listened, heard nothing. The stories were fixed: two women blazed the trail. No boy, and no man hobbling up behind them. The leg ached; the silence slowly killed me.

  One night, I went on fire. I fell forward. I felt hands pull me, hands beat me. I coughed, I saw. I sat up, I thanked them.

  I’d heard.

  —You okay?

  —I’m grand.

  —You smell too much like side-meat, mister. Might be wise to move along.

  —Someone got there before us, a man said. —Seems like.

  They watched me
pour water on the leg.

  —I’m grand, I said. —I fell asleep. I was listening.

  —Happens a lot of folks listening to Jake there.

  I looked at Jake.

  —Go on. Please.

  —Where I stop?

  —You said a kid.

  —That’s right, said Jake, a thin man who could have been any age, from young to dead. —The kid strolled into the bank, right behind the gals. A boy. And he was singing.

  I sang, quietly.

  —WE’RE IN THE MONEY—

  —That’s right, said Jake. —You hear all this before?

  —No, I said. —That’s my son.

  Shamus. Aka Shamus Louie. Hair, brown. Eyes, blue. Age, 6 to 16.

  I cried. And a woman, any woman, rocked me till I slept.

  He was out there too, barking and alive. Growing up too big to catch, waiting for his daddy. I slept for days. I shaved, I washed deep in a fierce river – the water cut the waste off me. I stole new trousers off a branch behind a farmhouse. I put them on as I ducked the bullets. I put Rifle’s hair in one of my brand-new pockets. I followed the stories. I went looking for my family.

  —Judge turned round in his chair and there was this boy, about ten years old, right behind him. Hanging onto the chair back, gun pointing straight at the judge’s forehead. Good morning, judge, said the boy. That’s my mama you been giving out to and I’d be right obliged if you’d apologise.

  —Where did it happen?

  The interruption annoyed the teller. But he saw my face; I didn’t doubt.

  —Straightback, Arkansas.

  —Thanks.

  I stood up and left them to it.

  Women liked the leg, and I began to like it. I told them how I came to have it; I sent out letters of my own to my wandering family. I’d sit at the fire; I’d lift the trouser leg, enough to let the light caress the wood. People would shuffle, men would sit back, and give me room at the front of the sitting group. The night made the leg look new, almost flesh. There was a story for them there. Men stared at the leg; women stared at the man who owned it. And I told them how I got it. And, sometimes, a finger would reach out, and a fingertip would kiss the teak. And I began to feel like the fine man I used to be. The story became stories, and the stories went from fire to fire, and from state to state.

  Sometimes I told the honest truth.

  —I managed to grab the boy. He got into the car but I slipped. I went under the wheel.

  —Oh Lord—!

  —I didn’t feel anything. Not at first, anyway. I heard it, going over. Like a slice.

  —No!

  —Sorry. And I felt it. I felt it ripping. The feeling. The sensation. But not the pain.

  —My—!

  —Until later.

  —Of course.

  —Where did this happen, son? asked a man whose wife or daughter had started crying.

  There was always a crying woman and, nearly always, an angry man.

  —Ransom, Kansas, I said.

  —The leg buried there?

  —Don’t know, I said. —By the time I knew it was missing, it was too late to want it back.

  —Does it pain you now?

  A woman. Always a woman.

  —Ah well, I’d say. —You get on with it, you know.

  And, always – always – there were one or two who knew they could deal well with my pain and, sometimes, I’d let them try. We’d meet up on the third snore of the husband or da, away from the tents and tarpaper huts, away from the light of the fire, and I’d let them hold the wood and heal me.

  —My, what made these marks on your other leg?

  —The ball and chain.

  —No end to your trials.

  —Who’re yeh telling.

  And, sometimes, I told them a different truth.

  —I was surrounded by the cops, right. All sides. So I had the leg off, like that—

  —My Lord!

  I’d jump, and stand on one foot.

  —And I laid into the fuckers, before they knew what was happening. Skulled the lot of them.

  —Where was this at, son?

  —Dublin.

  —Dublin?

  —That’s right, I said. —Ireland.

  I’d left Dublin with both legs but I wanted them to know, Miss and Saoirse and Rifle, when they heard about the man with the wooden leg who’d beaten his way out of an ambush of fat rozzers, I wanted them to hear it – Dublin, Ireland – and they’d know: I was out there, looking for them.

  I’d let them watch me strap the leg back on.

  —You come a long ways on one leg, son.

  —True.

  —Hurt any?

  —Now and again.

  And they’d know then why I was taking my time.

  I wandered, through the seasons, through the dust days and the grasshopper days. I followed the desperate logic of those years, and I told my tales and listened, and I waited to hear the big story. I waited for our stories to meet and become the one. The handsome man, the beautiful woman, the children. The leg, the gun, the happy ending.

  I thought it would be soon, and I thought that for a long time. I made up more stories, sent out more and more.

  —I ran out of the post office with the leg held high.

  —The look on that young one’s face, I swear to God, it was worth the leg. And, anyway, I still have the knee and it’s grand.

  They tried to make me King of the Hoboes, in a jungle outside Macbeth, Idaho. But I turned them down; I stuck to my guns, and hers.

  —Up the fuckin’ Republic!

  I watched that story take off; I could see it fly along the tracks, junction to junction, to her, to them. The man who would not be king. The man who couldn’t be someone else. The man who was on his way.

  And, sometimes, I held back. I sat at the outside, or stood against a tree, let the limp stay a limp, kept the cloth over the leg. I stopped being my own story for a night or two, and I listened.

  —That man crept out from under the caboose. And them Pinkertons was a-waiting for him. Thought they had him this time. They waited for him to stand up and take his beating. The bulls, and the local heavy-foots. And that mean bastard, Lima Slim.

  —Heard of him.

  —You sure did. They stood there, watching. Watching the blood. Watching the man stand up. Watching where there once was a leg but wasn’t one no more. The land where the foot should’ve beed. The blood pouring out onto that dry land. Paid it such attention and respect, they never saw the leg. Heard the swinging same time they heard the knee hit the side of Lima Slim’s head. He was down before they saw. And by then, there was two, three of them bastards lying down beside him, keeping company with the son of a bitch.

  Your daddy’s not a failure, was what the stories said. He’s on his way, he’s on his way. I knew they’d know when they heard them. They’d understand, and know. They’d know, and understand.

  It was tempting to slip the leg off and hop into their centre, the story made flesh, and I did give in, once or twice. But, more often, the loneliness kept me still and quiet, and I listened for more, of them or me, a tale that would hint at where they were, or tell them where I was.

  —Tell ’em One-Leg O’Glick’s in town and any scab still here come morning is going to be chewing the dust.

  I sent out plenty of Irish stories, but I never heard one come back. One-Leg O’Glick had become one of their own, a man wandering the heartland, forced further west. A man of their own ways and accent, a man who would stop their flight.

  —He put that leg down in the dust and said, No further.

  He’d stop on the road, on the track, the edge of someone else’s town; he’d stop, and turn, turn back, and take back the miles and acres they’d lost, the jobs and loved ones, livestock and businesses, graves and homesteads. A man who was winning their fight for them, whose stories would let them retreat in shredded dignity. A man who had stopped being me.

  The more I listened, the more I knew, a
nd the less I heard of me.

  —One-Leg Hancock, they call him.

  One-Leg Hickock, One-Leg Lewis, Hop-along Jethro Dupree.

  I stopped telling the stories. I put my ear to the tracks, and listened.

  And I heard less and less, and nothing.

  Rifle was the first to go. Last in, first out – a character for the times. He’d been in there for two years or more, growing big beside the stories. But then, gone. I listened – nothing. I moved and listened – nothing.

  I got myself arrested. It was no big effort. Vagrancy was a crime at the harvest times; the country needed slaves. I picked cotton – I really did; I dragged the cotton bag behind me for three sore months. And, chained, I heard the older versions, from other men who were doing longer time. I hoped that I could trace their movements, and pick out where they’d lost Rifle. But it was her and her girl again, no boy, no son, no mention. And, free again, I crawled the Dustbowl, went back to where the stories had come from, and rooted for my boy. Every day, in ev-ery way. I listened. The hard dust got between the wood and stump, made every step and move a red and roaring pain. I listened. I stood on the wood, leaned hard, to keep it raw, to keep me far from sleep. I listened to the old ones left behind, who’d refused to go, living in holes. I listened at the last diners – Will’s Eats, Carl’s Lunch, Joe and Minnie – to the men who drove the tractors, the mechanics, and Will and Carl and Joe and Minnie.

  —Heard tell there was a boy.

  I crashed through the screen door. I’d no money but I stood at the counter.

  —Heard that too.

  —Got himself shot.

  —I heard that.

  —Drove her clear insane.

  —Heard. Believe that’s what would happen.

  Bing Crosby from the radio. Ti-pi-ti-pi-tin. Benny Goodman, or Louis Armstrong.

  —Heard different. Heard he coughed hisself to death.

  —Heard that too.

  Benny Goodman or Louis Armstrong.

  —What was his name? I asked.

  I wanted to run. I leaned hard on the leg.