The Burning Wire

right at you, if that’s what a cast eye was.
    “About the electricity thing? Some dude hooking up wires at that hotel? You touched the door handle and, zzzzzzz , you’re dead.”
    “Oh, that shit.” Stipp coughed a funky laugh. “Like the electric chair.”
    “Like that. Only it could be stairs or a puddle or those metal doors on the sidewalk. Elevators to the basements.”
    “You walk on them and get zapped?”
    “I guess. Fuck. And you push those metal WALK buttons in the crosswalks. That’s it. You’re fucked.”
    “What’s he doing it for?”
    “Fuck knows. . . . The electric chair, you piss your pants and your hair catches fire. You know that? That’s what kills you sometimes, the fire. Burns you to death.”
    “Most states got injection.” Stipp frowned. “You probably still piss your pants.”
    R.C. was eyeing Janie in her tight blouse and trying to remember when his wife was coming by to pick up the grocery money, when the door opened and a couple of people came in. Two guys in delivery company uniforms, maybe early shifters, which was good, because they’d be spending money now that their day was over.
    Then right behind them, a homeless guy pushed inside too.
    Fuck.
    The black guy, in filthy clothes, had abandoned a grocery cart of empties on the sidewalk and more or less run in here. He was now turning his back, staring out the window, scratching his leg. And then his head, under a disgusting cap.
    R.C. caught the bartender’s eye and shook his head no.
    “Hey, mister,” Stipp called. “Help you?”
    “Something weird out there,” the man muttered. He talked to himself for a moment. Then louder: “Something I saw. Something I don’ like.” And he gave a high-pitched laugh that R.C. thought was pretty weird in itself.
    “Yeah, well, take it outside, okay?”
    “You see that?” the bum asked no one.
    “Come on, buddy.”
    But the man tottered to the bar, sat down. Spent a moment digging out some damp bills and a ton of change. He counted the coins carefully.
    “Sorry, sir. I think you’ve had plenty.”
    “I ain’t had no drink. You see that guy? The guy with the wire?”
    Wire?
    R.C. and Stipp eyed each other.
    “Crazy shit going down in this town.” He turned his mad eyes on R.C. “Fucker was right outside. By that, you know, lamppost. He was doing something. Playing with the wires. You hear what’s going down around here? Peoples gettin’ their asses fried.”
    R.C. wandered to the window past the guy, who stank so bad he felt like puking. But he looked out and saw the lamppost. Was that a wire attached? Hecouldn’t tell. Was that terrorist around here ? The Lower East Side?
    Well, why not?
    If he wanted to kill innocent citizens, this was as good a place as any.
    R.C. said to the homeless guy, “Listen, man, get outa here.”
    “I wanna drink.”
    “Well, you’re not getting a drink.” Eyes outside again. R.C. was thinking he did see some cables or wires or shit. What was going on? Was somebody fucking with the bar itself? R.C. was thinking of all the metal in the place. The bar footrest, the sinks, the doorknobs, the register. Hell, the urinal was metal. If you peed, would the current run up the stream to your dick?
    “You don’t unnerstand, don’t unnerstand!” the homeless guy was wailing, getting even weirder. “It ain’t safe out there. Look outside. Ain’t safe. That asshole with the wires . . . I’ma staying in here till it safe.”
    R.C., the bartender, Janie, the pool players and the delivery guys were all staring out the window now. The games had been suspended. R.C.’s interest in Janie had shriveled.
    “Not safe, man. Gimme a vodka and Coke.”
    “Out. I’m not telling you again.”
    “You don’t think I can pay you. I got fucking money here. What you call this?”
    The man’s odor had wafted throughout the bar. It was repulsive.
    Sometimes you burn to death . .  .
    “The wire man, the wire man . . .”
    “Get the fuck out. Somebody’s going to steal your fucking grocery cart.”
    “I ain’t going out there. You can’t make me go. I ain’t getting burnt up.”
    “Out.”
    “No!” The disgusting asshole slammed his fist down on the bar. “You ain’t service . . . you ain’t serving me,” he corrected, “ ’cause I’m black.”
    R.C. saw a flash on the street. He gasped. Then he relaxed. It was just a reflection off the windshield of a passing car. Getting spooked like that made him all the angrier.