"I can't," she said.

"Yes, you can," I said. "Just say you know nothing about it and»

"No, I mean I can't carry the body down. I can't touch it."

"What do you mean?" I said. "You touched it before."

"I know, but I can't again. I can't even look at him anymore."

She turned away, toward the door. Still supporting the body with my left hand, I grabbed Charlotte's head with my right hand and forced it back around.

"Look at it," I said. "Get used to it, because you're helping me carry it down."

Her eyes were closed.

"Fuck you," she said. "I'm not going anywhere."

I realized that I couldn't force her to go with me, and arguing with her was just wasting time.

"Fine," I said, "but after I leave, I never want to see your pathetic face again. And when the cops talk to you, you better lie good, because if I go down I'm taking you with me. Got that?"

Charlotte nodded slowly. I tried to lift Ricky's left arm over my shoulder, figuring I'd carry him down that way, but the arm was too stiff and I could barely move it. Instead, I grabbed him from behind in a bear hug and started backing my way out of the bathroom, getting nauseous from the smell of shit. I saw Charlotte, back on the futon, lying on her side, facing away. I'd started walking forward now, shuffle-stepping, holding the body in front of me. When I got to the front door I was already sweating and gasping.

In the hallway I looked in both directions, especially toward the neighbor's door to the left; except for music playing in a lower-floor apartment, it was quiet, and no one was around. I tilted the body horizontally and held it by my side, as if I were transporting a heavy rug. But it didn't feel like a rug; it felt like a stiff, heavy, cold body. Sucking it up, I headed down the stairs as fast as I could.

Halfway down the first flight I was already exhausted, and I didn't see how I could possibly make it. I'd had an off-and-on sacroiliac problem since injuring myself carrying a metal filing cabinet home from a thrift shop a few years ago, and the way I was struggling on the fourth floor landing I didn't see how I could possibly make it all the way to Tompkins Square Park without throwing my back out or having a heart attack.

I considered dragging the body behind me and letting it bounce on the stairs, but I figured it would make too much noise. Then, heading down the next flight, I realized how idiotic the whole plan was. Anyone could leave an apartment at any moment and see me, or someone could come up the stairs, and I'd have nowhere to hide. No one would believe Ricky was drunk or had OD'd, the way I was carrying the body, and even if that was what someone did think, it wouldn't do any good when the cops started asking questions. The person would just give the cops a description of me and eventually I'd be caught.

I considered turning back, but I talked myself out of that quickly. If I had to wait until tomorrow night the medical examiner would figure out that Ricky had been dead for more than thirty-six hours, and the cops would never believe that he'd been in the park for so long without being discovered. It was now or never, and I just had to pray that I could make it without being seen.

As I approached the third-floor landing my arms were killing me and I was breathing so hard my lungs hurt, but I didn't let myself rest. Jazz music with a strong sax sound was playing in the apartment adjacent to the bottom of the landing. Hopefully, someone had gone to sleep with the stereo on and there was no one awake in the apartment. I'd barely finished having this thought when I arrived on the landing and the music suddenly stopped. I froze a few feet in front of the door to the apartment where the music had been playing, holding Ricky's body by my side, his head jutting toward the doorknob. I heard heavy footsteps in the apartment, and if the person had heard me or opened the door for any other reason I could get ready to spend the rest of my life in jail.

The footsteps were closer now, and I imagined a surly, muscular guy with a goatee like my future cell mate was going to look opening the door at any moment. He'd scream for help, tackle me to the floor, and hold me down until the cops came. Aunt Helen and some of my other relatives would be shocked when they heard the news, telling reporters,

"He was such a nice, easy-going guy he could never have done something like that." I'd plead innocent, say the whole thing had been an accident, but everyone watching the news would think, Sure, that's what they all say. People at my office would have the same reaction, but Rebecca wouldn't give a shit. She'd just move on and start mooching off some other guy.

The two locks on the door turned and I knew this was it. The door would swing open and The footsteps started again, dissipating into the apartment. It took me several more seconds to realize that the person was locking the door, not unlocking it, and I wasn't going to get busted not yet anyway. I waited until there was total silence, and then I continued around toward the stairs leading down to the next floor.

The short rest had given me a surge of energy, and I was able to move faster than before. Fatigue set in again as I neared the second floor, but I was able to push myself to keep going. I kept telling myself that once I got outside I could find a dark area and rest for a while, and then it would be only a block and a half to the park.

When I reached the ground floor and saw the double doors leading to the outside several yards in front of me, I didn't think I could make it. I was going to pass out and collapse what a pathetic way of getting caught. Then I was opening the first door, which seemed like it weighed a thousand pounds, and I made it into the vestibule, and I opened the second door, which seemed to weigh even more. I made it outside, but I couldn't go any farther. I squatted, resting the body against an overflowing garbage can. It was okay the street was dark, empty, and quiet; the only noises I heard were distant traffic on Avenue B and, somewhere, a dog barking. I could rest for a few minutes and go on, but then I thought, Why not just leave the body here? It was going to be discovered anyway, so what difference did it make when or where it was found? Somebody could've fought with Ricky and bashed his head into the concrete right here as easily as in the park.

I thought it through a few more times, making sure I wasn't making a stupid, rash decision. When I was convinced I wasn't, I started walking up Sixth Street, as fast as I could without running. Crossing Avenue A, continuing west, I couldn't hold back any longer. I broke into a full sprint.

APPROACHING FIRST, I started walking again toward the West Side. I figured it would be a good idea to hail a cab in the West Village or Chelsea, far away from Charlotte's. Desperate voices in the dark asked me for change "Yo, you got twenty cent?" or offered me drugs "Smoke, man, smoke" but I kept going, not making eye contact with anybody. I was sick of all the zombies who just existed to make other people miserable. Everyone who thought the scum was gone from the city didn't leave their apartments at night.

Around Broadway my fatigue started to set in again, but it was nothing compared to how I'd felt lugging the body. I continued along Eighth Street, past all the closed stores, the streets emptier. On Sixth Avenue I finally hailed a cab, and I sat in the car, staring blankly straight ahead as Aziz Amir sped uptown, making almost every light. A wave of euphoria had set in I was really out of that apartment, on my way home. The situation had seemed so hopeless, especially when I'd heard those locks turning, but now I was free. My arms, shoulders, and lower back ached badly, and I knew my muscles would hurt even more tomorrow, but the pain would be worth it. I'd lie on a bed of nails for months if it meant getting through this.