Mikey no legs was in the cellar of his apartment building. His parents had lived there for 10 years before he was born, and for 5 years before Wally was born. And they lived there still. The four of them. And they were still the supers, a job that was much easier since the furnace was converted to oil quite a few years ago: no coal to shovel, no ashes to carry out, no fire to shake and bank and worry about. But there was still the garbage cans to put out, a job Mike had been doing for almost 20 of the 28 years of his life.
Mike started by helping Wally with the cans, always wanting to follow his big brother. He idolized Wally and begged him to let him help with the cans, and he did. At first Wally took most of the weight, patting his brother on the back and telling him he was a real good helper. Then Mike was taking one up all by himself, tugging on the handle as the can banged against the stone steps. Eventually he was able to pick up the can and carry it up the steps, and then with the passing of a few more years, he simply picked up one in each hand and almost ran them up the stairs.
The same occurred with the much heavier cans of ashes, Mike developing incredible strength.
Now there were no ashes. But they were still the supers and Mike carried the garbage cans up the same immortal steps only slightly worn by cans and shoes.
Although he was called no legs, it was not an accurate description. It was simply that he had a large barrel chest that carrying the cans had made even larger, and his legs appeared too short for his body.
He wasnt exceptionally violent or quiet, just sort of unobtrusively there, except when he got crazy drunk. Fortunately he only got drunk periodically, and then it was only occasionally that he got violent, when some twisted message tripped through his drunken body to his brain and voices burned his head and he couldnt scream them quiet, and, from time to time, things would appear either without or within his head that he had to defend himself against.
Mike sat on the floor leaning against the wooden wall of a storage room, a bottle of wine on the floor beside him and a small transistor radio. From time to time he would take a drink, then turn the dial from one end of the band to the other trying to find the ballgame. He knew there was one somewhere, but where???? He looked at the radio, his head swaying back and forth, eyes half closed, barely able to see the radio in the dimness of the cellar, Where are ya ya son of a bitch? Eh? Wheres those fuckin Mets? He continued spinning the dial eliding from one station to another, one song to another, one announcer to another, the rock rolling into the pop as his finger continued pushing the small wheel and suddenly a soprano screeched and he twisted the radio, Shut up bitch. He squeezed the radio and pulled his hand back, but then lowered it slowly and put the radio back on the ground. Fuck it. Who needs this shit. He took another drink of wine then slowly curled onto the floor, pillowing his head on an arm, and slept.
The game was on in STEVES and the guys at the bar looked at it from time to time. Harry and his friends decided they would chugalug a beer every time there was a double play or a home run. After two innings of neither one they extended it to include strike outs, stolen bases, runners caught trying to steal, bases on balls, scoreless half innings, and every third out. After six innings they also included the seventh inning stretch. Half an hour after the game ended, they had forgotten the score and werent too certain who won or who had played.
To Harry it seemed like the best game he had ever seen. He couldnt remember when he had laughed so much or so hard. The Mets were always good for a laugh, but tonight was something special. He felt loose, relaxed. He hadnt realized it until now, but this was exactly what he needed, a night out with the boys… drinking beer, watching a ball game, swapping stories and having some good laughs. He was feeling good… great. He staggered slightly, but only for a second, when he pushed himself away from the bar and started toward the mens room… again. One thing about that fuckin beer, it sure goes through you. He slowly worked his way to the mens room and leaned against the wall and looked down at the cake of ice in the urinal. The flushometer never worked and so everyone in STEVES indulged in the art of ice writing. He had started to carve his initials on his previous trips but his efforts had been obliterated by others who had no respect for his artistic endeavors and were happy to just piss indiscriminately on the ice while sighing, Ahhh, this is the pause that refreshes; or just trying to cut the piece in half (half a piece is better than none, hahaha) or just chip away at an edge. No class. No fucking class. Harry was determined that he would carve at least one clear, clean, recognizable H in the ice before the night was over and so, although there was a pressured urgency to his need to urinate, he squeezed his joint so just a thin stream of urine came out and carefully carved an almost near perfect (to him) H in the ice, still leaning against the wall with one hand and ignoring the splashing and splattering. When he finished he leaned back and looked with satisfaction at his initial and started to shake the final drops but stopped and moved so they would not fall on the results of his work and directed them to the corner of the urinal, a series of elipses going directly down the drain, not passing Go, not collecting two hundred dollars. He zipped his fly and stood swaying slightly in front of the urinal, smiling and nodding to the compliments he was hearing in his head. He wished he had a Polaroid camera so he could take a picture of it. Never see it again. Nobody’d believe it. Between the heat and all those assholes pissin all over it it wont be here long. Maybe he should just stay here and watch it slowly melt and stand in front of the urinal so nobody else could fuck it up. Naaa… shit, that aint no good. Anyway, Im fuckin thirsty an—
Ya finished?
Yeah. Harry took another few steps back.
Thank Krist. I gotta piss like a bandit.He sighed as there was a sudden flood of urine on the rocks, Ahhhhh, the pause that refreshes.
Harry stood for a moment, then blinked and shrugged and left, Dont get ya feet wet.
Yeah, hahahaha.
A fresh beer was waiting for Harry when he rejoined his friends. Comeon Harry, chugalug.
What for this time?
Who the fuck knows.
They chuckled and laughed, then controlled it just enough to drain their glasses, Harry having visions of a beautiful gothic H engraved in the ice.
Mike stirred, twisted his body, his head, then slowly sat up and looked around the darkened cellar, unable to see more than a foot or two away. He carefully moved his hand along the floor until he found his bottle, then picked it up. He tried to look at it but could see nothing of the contents so he shook it slightly and was relieved and happy to hear something splashing around inside. He took a long drink and closed his eyes and concentrated on the warm glow spreading within him, and smiled because he knew there was at least one good drink in the bottle, maybe more. He licked his lips and took another drink and when that had settled in he finished off the few remaining drops. He leaned against the wall as the wine continued on its journey and slowly a few things clicked into place. He knew where he was. He didnt have to be able to see to know he was in the cellar. He sat quietly for a few minutes listening to the sounds of the street, the sounds telling him that it wasnt too late, there were still people walking and talking so the bars must still be open. He jammed his hand in his pocket and felt some money. Thank Krist. He rubbed his head and his face. Must still be Saturday. Probably Saturday night. Yeah. Must be. Hope the fuck the bars are still open. He slowly stood up, leaning against the wooden wall, tested his legs, then paced himself to the stairs, feeling his way through the dark, able to walk just as freely and rapidly in the dark as in daylight, having spent so many hours, and having made so many trips, from where he was to the stairs that led to the street. Faint light from the street lamp near the top of the stairs cast a slanted shadow across the sidewalk and he stood at the top of the stairs for a moment, blinking, looking around, seeing lights on in most of the houses and feeling secure that there was still time to have fun.