Billy

Michael Mirolla

BILLY (A NAME HE INFINITELY prefers to the Guglielmo given him at birth) has one leg shorter than the other, the result of an unfortunate encounter with a public transport vehicle. The mid-winter accident, leaving Billy trapped between the spinning back wheels and a hard-packed snow bank, couldn’t have happened at a worst time. Billy was in the midst of undergoing some difficult hormonal changes and about to experience his first growth spurt. Although the spurt arrived on time, it only took hold of the upper half of his body, giving him the look of a bandy-legged, weightlifting rooster. And that, as a rule, could be more than ample reason for pity or derision. That could be the signal to take the luckless victim under society’s wing, to relegate him to that area where “tut-tut” is the operative word most often heard. This is especially true when the person happens to be a second-generation immigrant. But no one sighs or laughs or “tuttuts” when Billy ambles by, his misstep making it appear as if he can’t decide what height he really wants to be. No one chooses to point him out with a wiggling finger or to express open sympathy with his plight. No one comments on his status as an abandoned youth or as one of life’s incompletely-formed. And certainly no one says that Billy should be in some sort of institution at least, no one says it out loud. No one says it in his presence. For, you see, any or all of the above options would hurt Billy’s sensibilities and that, in turn, wouldn’t be very healthy for those exercising said options.

Despite the asymmetry or because of it, Billy takes great pleasure in dressing in his finest duds and strolling the streets. “His” streets, having returned to claim uncontested ownership not long after his final graduation from the Shawbridge Farm and Reformatory School for Wayward Boys. Occasionally and for no particular reason, he stops, sticks his hands into his specially-made silk trouser pockets and broods. More often, he simply concentrates on forcing himself not to smile, in keeping with his serious, if somewhat self-imposed, responsibilities. When he does choose to focus on someone, look out. It’s as if the rifles from a firing squad had suddenly been primed. Some might be tempted to say that behind that hooded, lizard stare lies spread the deadly history of Park Extension, of misinterpreted New World dreams and rough woollen underwear that hasn’t been changed quite often enough. Or that has been worn threadbare from too many direct applications of javel water. Some might be tempted to say that despite the fact Billy’s own underwear is always of the finest weave and never has to be worn more than once. But no one would. And how Billy has managed to go from abandoned childhood to personal tailor is another question that’s best left unexplored.

Billy cherishes his independence, his freedom to do as he pleases when he pleases. He lives by himself in a pleasant but modest tworoom flat above an Armenian grocery store-cum-dentist office. This flat had once housed his mother as well but she opted out of the lease soon after Billy’s accident (his father having opted out long before that, cursing the land repeatedly as the boat headed back to the Old Country). As far as anyone can tell, he has lived by himself ever since when, that is, not taking part in one of his sporadic reform school apprenticeships. And he has made it known, forcibly at times, that this is the condition he prefers, that he doesn’t care for anyone and isn’t interested in sharing the occasional heart-to-heart the rest of us find so soothing. Never has, never will. In fact, his favourite expression and this from a young man of very few words is: “I couldn’t give a flying mother about youse. Get outta my face.” Which freely translated means: Avoid the dapper gentleman for the foreseeable future or you won’t have much of a future to foresee.

But only his “friends” does he treat in such a chivalrous and courtly manner. As for his enemies, they receive no warning. None whatsoever. Often, by the time they find out about their ill-fated change in status, it’s too late. Way too late. One moment, they’re walking along a sunset-cloaked Park Ex street, whistling with youthful exuberance and without a care in the world after a visit with an accommodating signorina; the next, they’re laid out expeditiously and efficiently, contemplating the dizzy, eternal round of stars from a dark pool of their own vital fluid. At which point, Billy might lean down and offer a helping hand. He might deign to explain what brought on the “lesson” in the first place and why it was deemed necessary. Or he might not. And God help anyone crazy enough to disturb the calm of what

Billy sweetly refers to as “home away from home.” That’s the far-wall, facing-the-door booth at the Nero’s Palace night club where he sits for hours on end surrounded by a revolving cast of his favourites (always male), each bringing in a tithe or a trinket from their far-flung business activities. Chances are said disturbers, by definition strangers to the area who don’t know any better and haven’t taken proper heed of the danger signals, will soon be flying through picture windows one step ahead of a shotgun blast. On most occasions, Billy will take care to shoot well over their heads but there’s no telling when he won’t. No telling when he might feel compelled to lower his aim. And then calmly walk away, leaving enough money to cover the shattered pane and a round for those with the courage to have stuck it out.

But what Billy enjoys best, what brings a spark into the perennial dull of his eyes, is a punishment he reserves for only the most heinous of crimes: a punishment that involves jumping from the tops of fences. Fences not too high and not too low; fences with just the right footholds; fences with the proper give and take. And then landing with a delicious thud on the chest of his laid-out victim, pinned down below with uncaring yet casual effectiveness by Billy’s Hounds.

Billy’s Hounds are his ace retrievers. He, himself, due to the previously-mentioned lack of symmetry, can’t run with any competence. Besides, such precipitous motion would be a gross indignity, an admitting of undue haste and concern when those words don’t exist in Billy’s vocabulary. But his retrievers, also reform-school trained, are the finest in all of Park Ex. Always hungry, lithe, lean and long of limb, breathlessly swift and guaranteed not to injure the prey. In short, they’re exemplary hounds, recruited with just one purpose in mind. Nothing can divert them or lead them astray: neither family loyalty, nor “agenbites of inwit.” A false trail, an attempt to dodge down some garbage-strewn alley, will most certainly prove useless: Billy’s Hounds know every street, every dead-end, every abandoned building, garage and construction site in Park Ex. And a plea for mercy only excites them the more, only leads them to snigger and nod knowingly, all the while closing in with military precision. A sudden turn, a snarl, a show of teeth and knotted fists has the best effect causing them to stop in their tracks. But only for a moment. For they’re quick to recover more fearful of returning empty-handed than of any damage the quarry might be able to inflict.

Once surrounded and caught, once made to understand there’s no escape, once led to the point of no return (normally at the base of the chain-link metal fence that runs along the railroad track), the victim’s waiting must be a terrible, excruciating agony. Billy’s slow side-tilted gait becomes even more pronounced at such times. He will stop occasionally like a man in love to crack his knuckles. Or to suck on a minted toothpick. Or to comb his Brillantined hair. Or to adjust the buttons on his dapper double-breasted suit. As he resumes his walk, a cold somewhat cynical moon gleams back from his newly-shined footwear. For he always detours through the railroad station concession to have his boots polished to a sparkle before a “kill.” And he smiles. Now he smiles. At last he smiles. Such a smile is hard to imagine, quite impossible to re-create in any believable way. You need a dark as dark as a soul never given a chance, a soul crushed beyond recognition under the relentless tires of a winter bus. And then you need to sprinkle this dark with just the right amount of emptiness, a little soupçon of nothing like the cursed wake of a retreating ghost ship.

Following the jingle up the chain-link fence (not too high, not too low), Billy’s downward flight is a thing of infinite beauty, of perfect arc, of ultra-accurate trajectory: a rainbow with every single colour rubbed out save the red. It’s all the more fascinating in that, on the way down, one boot is necessarily ahead of the other for a double thunk. A thu-thunk. And, if you listen carefully enough, if you put your mind to it, you can hear Billy’s delighted “wheeee!” as he allows gravity to mete out justice for him. Only once has he missed beneath the shadow of that concrete overpass into Park Ex and that was definitely towards excess. With a crushed skull, a careering ambulance ride, a critical listing, the result.

It’s only after such punishments that Billy allows himself a few laughs, that Billy lets his guard down. Then in the familiar surroundings of his “home” and circumscribed by his faithful Hounds, each one vying for a pat on the head or a word of praise he opens up and begins to talk. What’s more, he allows others to talk, those with infinitely better verbal skills and memories, those with a gift for gab. For Billy isn’t afraid to admit his own deficiencies when it comes to such matters as long as no one else does. The talk is of exploits and brave deeds, of the good old days at the reform school, of escapes attempted and escapes succeeded. Anything goes, provided the evening ends with a re-cap of Billy’s own accomplishments and a reaffirming of his value to the community.

But one mustn’t get the impression Billy’s life is all peaches and cream, all sweetness and light. Sometimes his enemies, envious of his success, will stage a pre-emptive strike deep into his staked-out territory, causing havoc among Billy’s business associates and appropriating their hard-earned goods. Sometimes, emboldened by grief or blinded by revenge, the brother or the cousin or the long-time friend of the crushed skull will blast away the picture window of Billy’s “home” and then retreat to the far side of the railroad overpass, safe in the womb of another language, another night. And sometimes, there’s even a certain tit-for-tat, with one of Billy’s Hounds tossed off the same railroad bridge to scream and flail and suffer a shattered spine on the unforgiving tracks below.

On such occasions, there’s no talking to Billy. No point in even trying. A pure madness invades his eyes. It’s a clean devoid-of-life madness. It’s a madness that allows him to stash a machine-gun under his spotless, recently dry-cleaned trench coat. That allows him to stand vigil all night over “his” end of the bridge, the one necessary gap in an otherwise impenetrable armour. No doubt dangerous and exposed, if someone doesn’t know his enemies. But Billy knows them intimately, knows them as he knows himself. Better, really. For he’s had plenty of occasion to deal with them.

Come on, he will say, legs apart and well-balanced, machine-gun held loosely in one hand. Come to me, youse bleeding mothers, he will say while his Hounds wait curled up and whimpering at the base of the overpass. Come on. Here I am. Come and get me. And, unable to help themselves, his enemies will begin their long sojourn from the well-guarded halls of warmth and protection, from the arms of their girlfriends, from the pool room basements full of dusty light, from the 24-hour snack bars redolent with the smell of vinegar and ketchup. Clomp, clomp, clomp, marching in orderly phalanxes up the cement ramp, up the crumbling steps, drawn by the absolute magnet of Billy’s hate. They march and they fall, blown away by the steady blissful rat-a-tat that blazes like a single red-hot eye from somewhere close to Billy’s heart.

And then they march and they fall again and again after that, the entire night long. And for every single night after that. Tireless. Unconcerned with the niceties of time and plans for the future. They march and fall again as often as Billy calls them and that could be a long, long time.

You see, neither simple death nor the promise of subsequent resurrection is enough for Billy. It has never been enough. Not nearly enough.

It’s the again and again that comes closest to satisfying his soul. It’s the stiff blast of eternity he seeks out. A relentless pursuit for release. In the fervent hope that, someday, his enemies will do the same for him.