Free In the City of Shy Hunters by Tom Spanbauer

glass of Zinfandel because the Zinfandel was fifty cents cheaper than the Merlot, went through the Vin et Vous ritual of swirling and gurgling the wine. Ordered a glass of Côtes-du Rhone, cleared my palate with the French bread, went through the Vin et Vous ritual of swirling and gurgling the wine. Ordered a glass of the Merlot—at that point the $6.50 wasn’t that bad. Cleared my palate with the French bread, went through the ritual of swirling and gurgling.
    Then the Beaujolais and the Oregon Pinot Noir, each time, the palate clearing, the swirling, the gurgling.
    And the drinking.
    Never did get it up to ask for a job.
    The only thing on the Wine Bar menu in English was THE WINE BAR RESERVES THE RIGHT TO REFUSE SERVICE TO ANYONE .
    My spray-starched tabbed white shirt was red polka dot with thousands of tiny spills of red wine on it.
    Overexuberance with the swirling and the gurgling.
    Vin et Moi.
    L’addition: Thirty-eight dollars and fifty-six cents.
    Mon Dieu.
    Twenty percent tip, twice the tax, too drunk to figure.
    I left the whole fifty-dollar bill, left the Wine Bar. Me and my suitcase with the travel stickers on it postured our disregard right out of there. Didn’t knock anything important over, just an empty glass.
    On my way home, no Charlie 2Moons. I looked at everybody as if they were already dead and I was dead too.
    A ROLLS - ROYCE with the license plate DR LNDLRD was double-parked outside Ellen’s Uncle David’s office on Seventh Street betweeen First and Avenue A. There was a small waiting room with bad paneling and orange chairs and a vase on an end table with plastic red roses in it. Bullet-proof Plexiglas between me and a woman. When I asked to see Ellen Zigman Clavelle’s Uncle David, the woman—bright red frizzy hair, a lime-green skirt and blouse, and half-glasses that hung around her neckby a strand of pearls—started at my feet and looked up, looked back down again, both times stopping her eyes just below my middle.
    Speak up, honey, she said. Can’t hear you.
    Ellen Zigman Clavelle’s Uncle David! I yelled through the Plexiglas. I’m subletting her apartment!
    You got some ID? the woman asked.
    I pulled out my wallet, took out my driver’s license, and handed it to her. The woman took the driver’s license and put it under the light on her desk. Lime-green espadrilles. She put her glasses on the end of her nose.
    Idaho! she yelled, and threw her head back. Her glasses fell off her nose.
    What is this license, she said, To ride a horse?
    The woman had to sit down, she was laughing so hard.
    Can I see him? I asked. Ellen said he’s expecting me.
    Who? the woman said.
    Ellen’s Uncle David, I said.
    No, the woman said, You can’t see him.
    Isn’t that his car outside? I said.
    What car? the woman said.
    The Rolls-Royce, I said. DOCTOR LANDLORD .
    Dear Landlord, the woman said. You know the song , Bob Dylan. Yes, that’s Mr. Zigman’s car. But he’s not here.
    When can I see him? I asked.
    Mr. Zigman is a busy man. I can take care of your business, she said, her eyes going up and down on me again.
    She put her glasses back on her nose and pushed an envelope through the slot under the Plexiglas.
    Sign where there’s X’s, she said.
    I thought I was going to get Ellen’s apartment, I said.
    Speak louder, the woman said. Spit it out!
    My mother’s nerves.
    I didn’t get Ellen’s apartment, I yelled. I got twenty years of cat hair.
    Ellen didn’t have any cats, the woman said.
    Mrs. Lupino does, I said, And I got Mrs. Lupino’s apartment I -A. Not Ellen’s I -C.
    The woman went back to her desk, adjusted the glasses on her nose, and looked through another envelope with papers.
    Not according to my files, she said.
    But Mrs. Lupino said—
    Who? the woman said. Speak up!
    Mrs. Lupino! I yelled.
    Who’s she? the woman asked.
    The person in Ellen’s apartment, I