Steal the Lightning Page 13

  He introduced us.

  “Angel, Chris.”

  “Stella Douglas.” She grabbed my hand, and shook it firmly. Then to Angel, another handshake: “Stella Douglas.”

  “They’re two good friends of mine,” said Silverman. “They want to talk to you. If you’ve got time . . . ?”

  “Gimme a ride cross town? That’ll free me up.” To us, she said, “I tell you: this gig, you got all the time in the world, an’ ain’t none of it your own.”

  “Ride and a meal?” said Silverman.

  “Deal.” She shook his hand. Then she yelled to the guy behind the lunch counter, “Hey, Jamal! Give my lunch to Pat, OK? You do that?” She threw him a grin. “I,” she said, “am dining out!”

  She and Silverman sat in the backseat, talking up a storm. It was gossip, mostly, but listening in, I got a sense of how her life worked: a string of journeys back and forth across the city, most of them on foot, one free meal to the next, to the promise of a job, or the homeless shelter where she spent the night. It wasn’t just the miles; she carried her possessions with her, all the time. Even to a seasoned traveler like me, that seemed almost unimaginable. But she kept on talking, laughing, on and on.

  Then Silverman asked her about div.

  And she shut up.

  “Stell . . . ?” he said.

  She shuffled in her seat. “We ain’t seen that shit in, like, forever.”

  She leaned forward, speaking more to Angel than to me, and said, “Paulie’ll tell you. I don’t do drugs, ’cept a little pot sometimes, when I gotta chill, yeah? Don’t do no drugs, ’cause I seen how fast you go down that way on the street. Don’t do no drugs, don’t fly no sign. Work when I can. That’s me. I been a waitress, beautician, short-order cook, receptionist, made shower-fittings in a factory. I don’t do no drugs . . .”

  “Except . . . was it the one time? Stella?”

  “—was in Seattle for a while, worked as a cook, I mean a real cook, made up my own recipes, should never’a left that job. Never’a come back here. But whadya gonna do, hey? Whadya gonna do ?”

  We trekked around with her an hour or so. There were a couple of places with work going, she’d heard. Neither of them led to anything. Each time, she was quiet when she got back in the car. Then she and Silverman debated for a while, until they hit a deal: we’d take her to McDonald’s. After that, she’d talk.

  She ate quickly. Delicately. She ate in tiny little pieces, picking at the meal with her fingers. Like a mouse, with fast, nibbling movements. But it didn’t stop her chatter even then.

  “Hey, this is great, guys. Paulie here’s my best bud.” She clapped his shoulder. He put his head down, modestly. “Like I say, I never flown no sign. You gotta have respect for yourself, y’know? Else how’s anyone else gonna respect you, right? I see these guys—I’m homeless, help me out. Well, that ain’t me. But if my best bud Paulie wants to buy me lunch…?”

  “Flying a sign—” said Silverman.

  But she jumped in, quick to explain.

  “See ’em in the doorway, or at the roadside, with a big card, off of a box lid, you know? Gimme dollars. Or, veteran. Yeah! Veteran, my ass! Sure, there’s veterans on the street, sure there is, I know ’em, Hollis and Limber-Up, but this ain’t those guys. I see ’em, I say, ‘Aw, hey! Get a job!’ That’s kinda like a joke,” she said.

  I asked, “How long have you been homeless, Ms. Douglas?”

  “Stella, it’s Stella. You’re with Paulie, you call me by my first name. Comin’ up on three years.” She took a bite, jaws working quickly. “Home’s a thing, easy to lose an’ hard to find. I’ll get there. Big thing, on the streets, you gotta keep yourself together. You gotta keep yourself goaled, see? All I want now, all I’m lookin’ for is steady money, like a paycheck every coupla weeks. Oh, honey,” to Angel, “I love the way you got your hair. That is way cool. No, once you’re down, pickin’ yourself up ain’t easy, even when you work.”

  Silverman nodded. “You seen that movie?” he asked. “Documentary, true story. There’s a guy—working actor, lived on a rooftop for years, in the middle of Manhattan. I mean years. But he’d get up, put on a suit, shave in the public restroom—no one knew. Hits the street, he’s the best-dressed guy in town. It’s a great movie. Not one of mine, I’m afraid.”

  “Put on a suit. Yeah. I’m down with that.” But to Angel, sotto voce, she said, “I tell you, hon, I ain’t shaved my legs in ten days now, ’cause I ain’t got no razor, and I am—oh, jeez, I am like bigfoot down there . . .”

  She pushed the wrappings of her meal away. She’d eaten everything—even licked her finger to dab up the crumbs, the bits of burnt fries, the grains of salt.

  Silverman said, “Stella, now. We need to ask you about div.”

  She hesitated. Picked a last crumb from the paper.

  Without looking up, she said, “You know I don’t talk ’bout that.”

  “I know that, Stella. And I know this is going to be hard for you. But it’s really important.” Then he said, “I thought we had a deal.”

  “And we did, yeah . . . sorta.”

  I had wondered, sometimes, how he got his interviews. He came across as bumbling and uncertain of himself, barely even competent, much of the time. Yet I saw now, those were the very qualities that put people at ease. There was no sense of threat about him, no intimidation, only an urgency, a need to know what others knew, to hear what they had to say.

  “Chris and Angel . . . want to know what happened, Stell.”

  “Nothing happened. That part of my life—it’s gone, OK? Gone, like, I don’t think about it, I don’t talk about it. That kinda gone, see?”

  “They need to know, Stella. I won’t film it. We just need to know.”

  She said nothing. Her eyes flicked to the door, and I thought for a second that she’d run for it.

  Silverman said, very gently, “You talked to me a bit about it last time. If you could tell me—just a bit more . . .”

  She looked to me. She looked to Angel. “I said: I don’t do drugs. I said that, and it’s true. But I hit a bad patch, ’bout a year ago. I was really down. This guy comes by, says he’s got some new shit, says it’s gonna lift me up. ‘Make you divine,’ he says. That is really what he said. And I’m havin’, like, the worst time. Like my whole life is just foldin’ in on me, y’know? I don’t know if you even understand what that’s like.”

  “A bit,” said Angel. “Not much, but a bit.”

  Stella looked down at the table.

  “Not gonna talk about it here, though.”

  “Anywhere you want.”

  Her eyes went briefly to Angel again. Angel met her gaze, then nodded, silently.

  Stella said, “Will you take me to the Castle? After? Will you do that?”

  “Sure,” said Silverman.

  I said, “This really is important, Stella. It would be a big help to us, and perhaps to other people, too.”

  “Yeah, well.” With her fingernail, she scrubbed a patch of dirt from her shirtfront. “That’s what I’m all about. Bein’ helpful. Anyone’ll tell you that . . .”

  Chapter 38

  The Interview

  We hid under the trees, out of the sun. Green, watered lawns fell to a dried-up streambed, shored with timbers, and beyond that, a children’s play-park—swings, climbing frame, wooden dinosaur—done out in garish, candy colors.

  There was nobody about.

  It was much too hot.

  “What I’m showin’ you,” said Stella, “what I’m showin’ you, is outdoors.”

  She had dropped her pack and excess clothing, and she paced now, in and out the shadows, holding the floor like she was playing Shakespeare.

  “You got indoors, you got outdoors. We agree on that?”

  I nodded.

  “Well.” She wagged a finger. “First thing. You lose your home, an’ suddenly, no more indoors. Gone.” She snapped her fingers.

  Silverman said, “Div, Stell. You were going to tel
l us about div.”

  “Now you hush, Paulie. I’m tryin’ to set the scene here. I thought about this lots, an’ it’s important, right? It means something.”

  “Go on,” he said.

  “See—indoors, ain’t yours. That’s the story. You think it is, but, fact o’the matter, someone else owns indoors. And when you got a home, you’re kind of in on that, too, just a little, ’cause you got your own little piece of it, an’ that gets you all those other little pieces of it, too. You don’t got that—nuh-uh. You got nothin’. You out here, in the hot an’ the cold, don’t matter what you say.” She batted at a fly that buzzed around her face. “You think, hey, let’s go to the mall, check out the stores. But mall security, see, he knows you. He knows that you ain’t buyin’ shit. An’ if you ain’t buyin’—honey, you are out of there.”

  She jerked her thumb.

  “Notice how they put the benches in the sun, hey? Notice that?”

  I said I hadn’t.

  “You will. If it’s your only place to take a break.”

  Silverman still had his camera.

  “Stella, I know I said I wouldn’t film you, and I won’t, if you don’t want me to. But I think that it would help a lot . . . ?”

  She shrugged.

  “Don’t care. Don’t care no more . . .”

  She swung her arms. She looked up at the sky, the trees.

  “We’re put here on God’s Earth, and people say we’re put here for a reason, an’ each an’ every one of us, we got a purpose under Heaven. But I tell you: purpose is like indoors, too. And when you trying to make it, day by day, don’t got no time for purpose. Sit there, ponderin’,” she cupped her chin in her hand, “wonderin’ what it’s all about. So sure, maybe here’s my purpose. I dunno. My purpose, talkin’ to you, right here, right now. Gotta be somethin’ . . .”

  “We can go somewhere more comfortable, if you like. A café, or a hotel, or . . .”

  “Uh-uh. We come here ’cause there’s no one listenin’. ’Cause there’s no one near. You shoot your little movie, Paulie. You make me like a big, big star. But right now, all I’m tryin’a do is get my life back, see? ’Cause that’s the way it feels. Like some fucker stole my life. I dunno who, I dunno how . . .”

  Silverman cradled the camera, glancing at the monitor. He said, “You don’t do drugs, Stella. I know that. But you did try div a couple of times, didn’t you? And I wondered how that came about?”

  “Ah, shit . . .” Then she grinned at him. “Paulie, you are setting up a fucking interview here, ain’t you? You are putting me on Fox fuckin’ News!”

  “Yeah, Stell. And you know you’ve just blown it for me, don’t you?” They traded grins. He waited for a moment. Then he said, “You want to answer anyway?”

  “OK, OK.” She spread her hands, looked at her fingers. Her voice was lower now, more hesitant. “I’m talkin’ now—talkin’ ’bout a bad time. And, I know what you all thinking. Homeless, yeah, that’s bad, that’s like, rock bottom. Only it ain’t. Bottom is like, six months, one year, two years on, you done everything, tried everything, you cannot get your shit together. It’s like everywhere you go, there’s just this brick wall. Whether it’s welfare or it’s cops or cold or hot. Things are lookin’ up for maybe five, ten minutes, an’ then—smack. Down you go again. Weren’t always that way for me, though, I’m tellin’ you. Had my own place, had a job, I was never rich, but, hell, I paid my bills, and then—ah, Paulie.” She looked up suddenly. “They don’t wanna hear this, no one wants to hear this. What you want me to say? What you want? Ah, Jeez—” She raised her hands, she shook her fists.

  “Tell me about div,” he said, and then, again, “This is important, Stell.”

  He waited. The kind of silence that makes people talk, simply to fill it.

  She sighed.

  “Div. Yeah. Some shit I never wanna see again. No sir.”

  “Why’s that, Stella?”

  “He was . . . this guy. Didn’t come on like a dealer. Kinda quiet. Nervous even. An’ just him. No bodyguards, no war chiefs . . . And the other thing, see: this guy ain’t sellin’. He is givin’ it away. Says, if he likes you. If you’re right for it. An’ the way he talks, way he says it . . . like he’s tellin’ you the product done the choosin’. We got a lot of crazy people here, but this guy, this guy’s different.”

  She paused, took out a cigarette. Silverman waited. Then he said, “What did he look like, Stella?”

  “He looked . . .” She blew smoke. “Looked like a guy, I guess. White guy. Good clothes. Nothin’ fancy, but, good, y’know? These like, Italian boots, you know? Shorties, ’bout to here. Shades down, all the time. Indoors, too. And he’d take a look at you, look in your eyes, say some shit like, div loves you. And he’d dust you free.”

  “Div loves you. What did you think that meant, Stella?”

  “I told you. He acted like the stuff had, like, a mind all its own. Crazy shit. Or maybe not so crazy. I dunno. An’ he called himself a name. He had cards, like business cards, but all that’s on ’em is a picture, ugly fuckin’ thing. Boy eating a apple. An’ he shows it round, he points at it, says, You wanna know who I am? Well, that’s me.”

  “Johnny Appleseed,” I said.

  “Yeah! Ah, shit. I don’t like thinkin’ ’bout this, right? Don’t like—don’t like rememberin’, it’s gone, it’s over, yeah? Not part of me no more—”

  She pulled angrily on her cigarette, but it was down to the filter. She dropped it and then ground it out under her foot.

  “So, there I am. I think, OK, my life is so fucked now, how much more fucked can it get?

  “Dumb, huh? Fucking dumb. I know that now . . .”

  “This stuff—it twinkled. Twinkled like stars. But not the first time round. First time, it was kinda dull-looking, not white like coke, or yellow, just this kinda dull gray color. First time, it’s like nothin’. Maybe if you didn’t use, and didn’t let it in, maybe it stayed like that. But once you got a taste—oh my. After that, it’s as pretty as the stars up in the sky. Just pretty, pretty, pretty. An’ a little further down, you start to feel it, too, just like it’s in there, watchin’ you, sat right behind your eyes or somethin’. An’ it sees what you see, knows what you know—”

  She put her hand over the camera lens.

  “I can’t do this.”

  “Just a little more, Stell. Tell us what came next.”

  “Came next . . . ah, jeez . . .”

  She lit another cigarette, sucked hard on it.

  “Look. I don’t want you people thinking I’m ignorant, or stupid, right? I seen drugs. I seen how fast you go down, livin’ on the street. But this is different. Two days later, I wake up, an’—I do not know myself. I do not know who I am. It’s like my whole head’s shuffled round, turned upside down, all the furniture’s been taken out an’ rearranged, an’ I just think-I gotta get myself straightened out here. ’Cept I’m so messed up, only way to get straight, I’m thinkin’, is go get another hit. One more hit. Just one.

  “An’ how fucked up is that, huh? Tell me. How fucked up is that?”

  I watched the cars along the highway, shuttling back and forth. A million miles from Stella’s world.

  I needed cool air. Water.

  “Paulie,” she said. “I tried. Gimme a break, huh? Ten minutes? An hour? Let’s go do something, huh? Go to the Castle, like you promised? Like you said we could?”

  “Yeah,” I said. “Let’s all take a break. Before we die of sunstroke.”

  Chapter 39

  A God Talking Through You

  There’s a castle in the rolling green Kentucky countryside, complete with battlements and witch-hat towers, ready to fend off roving bands of Celts, or Huns, or Gauls.

  I turned off for the entrance, but she had me park outside, instead. She wouldn’t even step out of the car. It was like, going too close, she’d spoil the magic, and she knew it, too.

  “My Poppa used to tell me, when I was a little kid, he’d s
ay, ‘Prince o’ Lexington lives there.’ An’ I always thought, one day, y’know, one day—yeah. Long time ago. But I love this place, I love it so, so much . . .”

  “It’s a hotel,” I said.

  “Weren’t always. Some crazy European guy, I guess, decides he’s gonna build a castle, an’ he builds one. Why not? I wanna live in a castle, too. If I get rich. Ah, but, hey. I’d see it, way, way down the road, an’ scream at Poppa, castle, castle, castle! till I damn near bust his ears.” She pushed her face against the window. “Like I say—shouldna left Seattle. Shouldna come back . . .”

  “We can get you a hotel room,” I said. “Not that one, but downtown, maybe. Stretch it to a week, perhaps. Give you a chance to rest, relax a bit . . .”

  “Yeah. Be nice, I guess.” She rolled her forehead back and forth against the window glass. “I got friends down at the shelter, though. They gonna miss me, I’m not back. I wanna be with ’em . . .”

  Silverman’s hands caressed the camera, as if it were a favored pet. He said, “I know that this is rough on you, Stell. I know. But can I ask you for the rest of the story? And can we make it up to you, in some way? After?”

  She waved a hand. A tear began to dribble down her cheek. She wiped it off.

  Silverman waited. He said, “These guys are loaded, Stell. Thought you should know. They’ve got expense accounts.”

  “Which we need to justify,” I said.

  She sat there, pressed against the window, against the car door. But then she shook herself and dabbed her eyes. She sat up straighter, and in an instant, she was back: the streetwise hustler, the deal-maker. “Two things,” she said. “I wanna cell phone. Not the kind you pay for, I want one gets wi-fi. So’s I can text and phone and e-mail. And I want—hey, I saw this gal in downtown, and she had, like, the prettiest hair, all gold and curled and I want my hair like that, so when I hit the street, it’s gonna shine, y’know? I’m gonna glow—that’s what I want . . .”

  “Get you some razors, too,” said Angel, in her ear.