Free The Lesser Blessed by Richard van Camp Page A

opened my eyes, there was Franky pointing at my feet.
    “Cousin,” he whispered, “you’re pissing blood.”
    I was.
    That’s all I remember.
    I woke up when Johnny led Juliet to the door. She was putting on her running shoes and her damn sweater was inside out. Why didn’t she just goddamned advertise on the blue channel: “Hello! I just got plowed!”
    She had her damn socks off and I could see her tiny toes. I wanted to run over there and bite her ass! Johnny kissed her and told her he’d call her. She hugged him and whispered something to him. He laughed. After she left, he came over and sat next to me. His hair was messed up and he didn’t look too happy either.
    “Lare,” he asked, “what’s in your hair?”
    I didn’t answer. I just looked at him. I knew he was gonna give me a lecture.
    “Let’s go for a walk,” he said.
Floaters
    Fort Simmer braces for two things in winter. The first is the cold. The second is the Floaters. Floaters are the town drunks who stagger around the community at all hours of the night. Hobo Jungle is where they camp. But when it’s cold out, they come into town to pass out in the alleys, or in the hotel lobby or at the taxi stand. Some throw bricks through the windows of the Bay so they can be charged and shipped off to Yellowknife where they can hibernate and clean up. They are the lost, and Johnny and I walked among them. The ice popped and cracked under our feet and we shimmied like we were wearing kimonos.
    Johnny took me out to the back roads of town, by the landslide. We passed two men, one of whom shuffled slow with his head down; the other jumped around him, shadowboxing in old tennis shoes and a bright yellow sweater. His big belly bounced up and down, and he strutted up to us, away from his brother.
    “I’m a boxer!” he said and raised his fists. His breath rose above him and plumed like a baby Hiroshima.
    The other man was trying to say something in his raspy voice. He was drunk. I could smell the men downwind. They reeked of sweet Lysol and sour fish. The raspy man’s voice was haunting, as if he were a face screaming without a throat.
    “Have you ever walked in the footsteps of Jesus?” he asked. I could see his long nose, which slid across his face like a snake off its trail. It had been broken many times. His eyes were black, as black as the eyes of a corpse. They were lifeless, staring at me.
    “No,” I said.
    Rasp Man shambled closer and raised his hands like the lord of the cross. “Have you ever walked in the footsteps of Satan?” he whispered. I stepped back instinctively. I did not want to touch the man or breathe the air around him.
    “Great ! ” Johnny said and came between the Boxer and his brother. He handed the Boxer a smoke. The man stopped his fists long enough to accept it. Johnny lit it for him. Rasp Man floated towards them. I couldn’t see his feet move. He just floated. I heard a quiet thanks that sounded like a death prayer and both men shook Johnny’s hand. Johnny said something to them and they continued on their way towards town. Johnny put his hands in his pockets and walked over tome.
    “Fuckin’ chronics,” he whispered.
    I was cold and shivering. We started following the brothers towards the town lights. There were pockets of snow on the roads and the ice had glassed over in a thick skin. When the Floaters walked on the ice, it cracked, sounding like panes of glass.
    “You really did it tonight, buddy,” Johnny said, changing his tone. “Now you’re in. Now you gotta learn the rules of fighting. When you broke Jazz’s nose—and you owe me one for wiping up the blood—you got brought into a circle. This circle is one for fighters, like Buddy X up there,” he motioned with his head.
    The bigger man was shadowboxing his fists about his brother’s head without making contact. He was quick. His belly bounced and bounced. Rasp Man cackled back and started to call and cough loudly. It was a scene of shadow puppets,