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subterrained back up Columbus Park way. This homeless guy, Jimmy, came up
and introduced himself to us. He said “I’m Jimmy. I’m Homeless.” His face
looked like it had been through the masher and slicer—nose bent in, deep
furrows about the eyes, scars cut deep in and a bloody scab on his forehead.
We gave him our last few drops of high-test. We were getting along smashingly,
in a homeless guy/drunk writers type of way, but then when Jimmy heard we
were writers, he went for Scott with a knife. He only got in two short stabs
(surface wounds really) to the abdomen before Timothy Coyne, a cop with
a heavy Brooklyn accent, burst out of the shrubbery and tackled Jimmy. Coyne
then boxed Jimmy on the ears and let him go with a warning. Apparently
the same thing had happened with Paul Auster
the week before. It seems Jimmy had got “done in” by an erroneous statement
made by Norman Mailer some years before, and ever since then had stabbed
every writer he ran across. This, by the way, should not be interpreted
as any kind of blanket statement about homeless people, who are generally
good people getting fucked by a cruel and unforgiving
cash-driven society. It was just that one
guy, Jimmy. Nevertheless, my advice is: if you’re a writer, don’t walk through
Columbus Park, or at least don’t look like a writer
while you are. Or else you might meet Jimmy’s little Bowie Knife. Which
hurts good if and when it sticks you.
Our treatment was considerably better the next
time we visited New York.
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