Page 36 of Playworld

Tiny Pilchard, mackerel-eyed and full-lipped, tried to gamely play along. “Nah, you go first,” he said. It was both an obvious stalling tactic and, somewhat sadly, an expression of gratitude for being included in our game.

“No,” Cliff said, and pushed both the glass and the coin closer, “yougo.”

Pilchard took the quarter, placed it on the bridge of his nose, and released. It rolled and bounced on the table,tinking against the highball’s rim, then spinning until Cliffnotes stopped it with his finger. Taking the coin between his thumb and index finger, Cliffnotes bounced it on its flat side. We watched it arc and then clatter into the glass. He pointed his elbow at Pilchard. “Drink,” Cliff said. Pilchard chugged his beer until the quarter slid into his mouth, and before he’d even finished the suds, Cliff took it and refilled it. Cliff missed, then passed the quarter to Tanner, who, with a no-look bounce, sank the quarter again and pointed his elbow at Pilchard. “Drink,” he said. When he missed, he passed the glass to me, and I missed, intentionally, and passed the glass to Roy, who balanced the cigar on the table’s edge and, after he sank the coin, picked up the stogie and pointed it at Cliff. “Drink,” he commanded. Cliff drank, Roy missed, Pilchard sank, hit Tanner, missed, and then Cliff landed two in a row, firing an elbow at Pilchard each time. Pilchard burped loudly between each glass. When Cliff’s streak ended, he slid the quarter to Tanner, who once again tagged Pilchard. He was pausing between swallows now, contemplating the glass’s level, raising it above his head to consider it from underneath. “Hurry up already,” Cliff said.

There were three more rounds of this. Pilchard was laughing now. “Come on, guys,” he said. But he didn’t have the courage to quit. Had he found it, Cliff wouldn’t have allowed him to leave anyway. Within thirty minutes Pilchard was red-eyed and semiconscious, his chin drooping to his chest and lids heavy, at which point Tanner said, “He’s crocked.”

Pilchard said, “I don’t feel so good.”

Roy said, “No hurling on the premises, please.”

Cliff, satisfied but not satiated, said to all of us, “Pick him up and follow me.”

I looked at Roy for a lifeline, but he bit the cigar in his teeth and, before excusing himself, said, “You kids don’t stay out too late.”

The moment the cold air hit us on Central Park West, Pilchard jackknifed at the waist and vomited profusely. Bent double, palms to knees, he moaned after expunging and said, “Sorry about that.” He wiped his mouth with the heel of his hand and then spit a couple of times. He was so wrecked he then tipped forward, but Tanner caught his underarm and Cliff lifted him by the other so that he didn’t fall into his own sick, upon which Pilchard seized and barfed several more times.

“Can someone get me home, please?” Pilchard asked.

Cliffnotes leaned down and, after bunching Simon’s bangs in his fist to lift his head, looked into his swimming eyes. “Hey, buddy,” he said, “don’t you worry, we’ll get you where you need to be.”

I said, “Enough, man, he’s toast.”

“Are you gonna puss out on me?” Cliff said.

“Typical,” Tanner said.

“Can you just tell me what we’re doing?”

Allegiances had shifted. Tanner and Cliff were a duo now. They had a plan and loyalty dictated I go along with it, and this made me angry and glum. Cliff hailed a cab. Tanner grabbed the door’s handle before the vehicle had even stopped. Like a cop, he palmed Pilchard’s head and pushed him in first, slid next to him, and then rolled down the window. He shoved Pilchard’s chin on top of the glass. I slid next to Tanner. Cliff, after closing the door, said to the cabbie, “Columbus Circle, please.”

The driver hesitated to pull his flag. “That’s not even a fare,” he said, and craned his neck around. He considered Pilchard through the plastic partition.

Cliff stuffed a five in the money slot and smacked it closed. “Just drive,” he said.

“He better not puke in my cab,” the driver said.

Pilchard did barf the moment we exited the taxi, spraying the street’s subway grates with tomato and cheese and then falling face-first, the odor from his guts wafting on the updraft. Tanner dipped into a fireman’s carry and, with Pilchard on his shoulder, followed Cliff, who marched up the Paramount movie theater’s steps.Raging Bullsilentlycoursed its circumference via hundreds of bulbs, a magical marquee that made the title appear to travel its shape like a ticker.

“Where are we going?” I asked Cliff.

Tanner said, “Just keep up.”

“If you don’t tell me, I’m leaving.”

“Then fucking go home,” Cliff said.

From this elevated landing, all of Columbus Circle came into view. The wind, barreling down Broadway, seemed churned by the roundabout’s traffic, as if funneled by the GW building, and then whipped past the Coliseum—Ringling Bros. and Barnum & Bailey Circusread its marquee. Cliff skipped down the black steps and then down the subway’s stairwell, its nautilus curve leading to the Fifty-Ninth Street station.

“Four, please,” Cliff told the tollbooth operator and again pressed money through the slot. He took his tokens and put one in the plunger for Tanner, then sent him with Pilchard through the turnstile, holding the other coin aloft for the operator behind the glass to see and depositing it and spinning the bars, lest he think we were fare-jumping our sick friend. He flipped me my token and followed after Tanner. The platform was nearly empty. A homeless man lay against the wall, in a nest of collapsed cardboard. Two women leaned against the girders, watching us. They wore platform shoes covered in glitter, fishnet stockings, and bootie shorts. Their varsity jackets were as puffy-armed as ours, but satin and shiny, the only part of their outfits weather appropriate.

“Will someonepleasetell me what we’re doing?” I asked.

Tanner said, “You’ll see.”

The twin headlights of the northbound train sparked the rails. It came bombing into the station, accompanied by its electrically charged gusts that were warm and humid—dragon-blown. It was impossible to tell the cars’ original color, they were so completely covered in graffiti. The train’s brakes whined and, when it stopped, made a sound like a giant round chambered into a breech. The doors opened. Tanner boarded, still carrying Pilchard on his shoulder, and laid the limp boy almost gently on the bench. Then he stepped back and blocked the door from closing with his foot. The two women who’d boarded at the other end of our car huggedthe pole, eyeing us suspiciously. I remained on the platform, as if by distance I was somehow exonerated. Cliffnotes bent to face Pilchard and took his chin in his hand. He lightly shook him. “Hey,” he said. “Hey, Simon.” And then as hard as Kepplemen slapped us, he slapped him awake. Pilchard’s head bobbled a bit; his eyelids peeled open. “Do you know where you are?” Cliff asked.

Pilchard considered Cliff for a moment and smiled. He said, “We’re at a party.”