Date: Sat, 8 Jun 2002 09:27:52 +0100 (BST) From: ben erikson Subject: The Bergman Files Nr3 Prologue The Bergman Files: Nr 3 The Gospel According to Luke or Pithecanthropus Erectus A story by Ben Erikson Prologue When Jello Hawkins woke up that morning he knew right away what he had to do. He couldn't yet feel the dull thudding in his head but sensed its approach. He was enough of a realist to know not to fight it and had begun even before he opened his eyes against the early April light, to adjust his plans, his schedule; to accommodate what he knew was already stirring; stirring somewhere far off, deep inside of him. Maybe not had to do. Was going to, though; was going to anyway. For sure. A butterfly wing beating the hammer. The deep, far-off pulse. A lapping wave becoming tidal. Whatever. He caught his look in the bathroom mirror and it flashed through his brain: "How did I get here?" Maybe he said it out loud. In any case he couldn't remember getting out of bed, getting dressed. He looked down and briefly examined his naked form and realised he hadn't yet dressed himself after all. "What you lookin' at, motherfucker?" This he did say out loud. Slowly he retraced his steps - they must have been his steps. For sure. He swigged a little from the bottle of Jack Daniels on his bedside table and sat down heavily on the bed, began to skin up some grass from the little he had left. So that's it, he thought. A hangover is all. Nothing a little pick me up and shower won't see to. He didn't move for some time then slowly, carefully, he put the papers down again, screwed the top back on the bottle. Later. The corner of the black label was torn; not right off but enough to let him play with it a minute with his thumb. Maybe this would be the way, this minor play a means of staving off the day's events. Why not? No, he decided at last, this was no hangover. Not that he hadn't hit it some last night. Perhaps he'd felt it coming on and had chosen sub-consciously to knock its head in first. Get that first hammer blow in yourself. Motherfucker. Show some pride. Sub-consciously; he was sure that was the phrase they used. Fuck them. The realist in him began looking round for clean underwear. Dirty underwear if necessary; he had a schedule to keep to here. Let's go, motherfucker. Spring is in the air or might as well be. He had tried to fight it off before. Of course he had. Devised with them all kinds of play to keep the tide at bay; to persuade himself he didn't have to do it. Didn't have to do anything. Not really. Not strictly speaking. Free as a bird on the wing he could have been. A Coltrane solo danced from bar to bar. Just choose. Just choose to be. But then he'd go and do it anyway. Sub-consciously, maybe. For sure. Was that Rogers and Hart or Rogers and Hammerstein? He whistled some. It might as well be. Might as well be Cole fucking Porter 'cept he knew it wasn't. He'd got his shoes on now, the good pair that he kept for days like this just to give him a lift, the air of someone with a schedule to keep to. Things to do, people to meet, hammers to beat. Butterflies to catch and tidal waves to ride like flying subway trains. He decided on Hart. Why not? You know any better, motherfucker? **************************************************** There was something familiar in the slghtly awkward slouch to the shoulders, the quick, jerky movement of the head that never seemed to keep still; the slight, but clearly visible shaking down one arm, the stuttering stance. Nonetheless there was something there as well that told you straight up that he was not your everyday wino, bum or junkie. Nor the kind of cool street angel Dylan or Lou Reed might have sung about. This guy was clearly something else. For just one second, half a second, I caught his eye. I couldn't help myself, God's truth. Even if I'd wanted to which I surely didn't. "What you lookin' at, motherfucker?" The moment hung a second in the beating air, turned on its axis and flew off at the call of some distant subway train. His eyes blinked once, as blank as butterfly wings, as meaningless. "Jello, man" I said. He continued to stare at the carriage wall to his left, the torn poster advertising that day's great event - the latest Britney video, its release. Already someone, some deranged critic, I guess, had slashed it almost half in two. Not clean strokes either; something in them spoke of desperation, hate or loneliness. Maybe they were mad Madonna fans bent on revenge for some unlikely slight that only they would ever know. Jello's fingers twitched to reach out to the torn-up corner, play with it a while. Stave off the day's events. "Remember me?" I asked. No reply. A piercing birdcall turning shrill as metal grinded metal rail beneath our feet. Still no reply, no acknowledgement. He seemed deep in thought, beyond reach. Maybe he was a Britney fan and understandably upset. "What you want, Bergman?" A good question. That was something he had always had for me; a good question. ************************************************************** Now I busied my hands around the cluttered table top in sub-conscious imitation of his own, a mirroring technique I'd learnt across a thousand table tops in cells, interrogation rooms. Then I'd stop, purposefully still, watching his reactions. The waitress came and cleared a space between us, elbow room at least for head to head stuff should we want it. "You know something" he said. "I don't miss it anymore an' that's the truth." We leant in head to head. "Bullshit" I said. But there was no reply. "Let me help you out. Buy you a horn, rent one, whatever. Fuck, man, you could get your chops together in...in no time at all." "I haven't got that much time left, Mike. Not even no time at all..." We both paused here to give the moment due. This was no hyperbole, was straight up fact; he'd straight run out of time. I waited till he was ready to go on. "An' anyways, last time I was...you know. Well, them doctors - you remember that mean nigger medic all those letters after his name? Adderley? Dr Milton-fucking-Adderley? Claimed he'd caught me once somewhere on Lenox sittin' in with Horace Silver. Bullshit, man. I never sat in with Horace Silver in my life. Long John fuckin' Silver maybe. Motherfucker called me "brother" then he jabbed that damn syringe in my black ass so hard it nearly broke in two. The syringe, I mean. Take more than that to fuck with my ass, baby. Fucked with my head a little tho'. After you helped me out that time, man, you know I was all fucked-up. You know. In the head. Shit man, sometimes I hardly know my own damn name. I can't think straight, I get this beating in my head the way Kenny used to hit that bass drum, you know? Those double-beats he used to do? Boom-boom, da-da, shadda, boom-boom...yeah? Motherfucker." The past lapped a moment round us both, a wave of images; echoes of music half-forgotten, half-remembered. Sweet old show tunes drugged up to the eyeballs, turning mean, then falling in love again and dancing, dancing from bar to bar; a Coltrane solo becoming tidal. "You wanna help me out with something? Take a look at this..." He drew out a large, evidently brand-new claw hammer from inside his filthy coat, laid it gently on the table space between us; played his elegant fingers round it's handle, practising some fingerings. For a second the shaking stopped, then started up again. "I've been keeping that for...for something. Can't remember...can't even remember..." he trailed off. Slowly I placed my hand over his and left it there. "I owe you, man" I said. "I'll help you out here. Nothing here we can't work it out. Yeah?" He looked at me, looked at me real deep. "It wasn't no accident was it? You on that train 'n all. You been following me, motherfucker? You been sent to spy on me? Check me out?" I nodded briefly. "I've been on your ass these last three days, baby. Just waiting for the right moment." He was thinking about this, trying to. "Let me have the hammer, Jello. You don't need it now. Don't worry, man. I'll take care of everything." His yellow eyes flickered into life a second, no more. "Maddy sent me. She asked me to find you. There's something she needs. Something only you can give her. Some information. I told her I'd come for old times sake, you know. Was kinda hoping you'd feel the same." "Motherfucker..." He gazed off into some private space beyond the booth, the diner, the New York streets outside, the world. The beating had begun again, only worse. But that would have to wait now, wait for ever if necessary, if really necessary. Would just have to wait. For sure. To be continued