You got tea?
No tea. Fizzy. Coke, Doctor Pepper. We got 7 Up.
Have ye got water?
Sure, water. The guy got him a bottle of water. He pointed at the accordeon-case: Hey man you play?
Yeah.
Good, good. The guy smiled, and hesitated, then added: Me too.
You too?
Si, I uh…
What the accordeon? you play the accordeon?
Si, I play.
Murdo grinned. The guy stood the bottle of water on the counter next to the paper plate. He straightened his baseball cap, waved round the foodstall. I got kids man you know, I earn money: got to earn money. He made a mournful face, but chuckled. He wagged his finger at Murdo. One day!
Murdo chuckled. Me too. He paid a $10 bill over the high counter, lifted napkins then collected the change; three single dollars and coins. A tips jar was there. Murdo dropped in the coins, stuck the dollars into his jeans pocket.
The foodstall guy frowned at him. Hey man!
Yeah? Murdo smiled.
The guy gestured sharply with his hand. How much you put in there?
Pardon?
How much? You put in there, how much?
Eh?
The guy wagged his finger at Murdo. You put in thirty-five cents! Is change I give you, thirty-five cents. No, is not good. The guy pointed at the tips jar: Put in a dollar man put in a dollar.
A dollar? Murdo looked at him.
One dollar. The guy shook his head. A dollar man, you know.
Murdo sniffed and took out a dollar, he shoved it into the tips jar.
The guy shrugged. Is what you do man.
Murdo nodded, he put the bottle of water in his rucksack, lifted the paper plate and the plastic fork. The guy said, Salsa?
No thanks. Murdo turned to leave.
The guy raised his hand to stop him. Hey you will be glad I tell you. You gotta tip a guy man.
Okay.
Yeah. Adiós.
Okay. Murdo walked on, and continued where the pavement led out of the lighted area and farther along where there was grass, like a little park, and two old-fashioned benches about twenty yards apart which were both empty. He chose the first, laid down the accordeon-case, swung off the rucksack and plonked down on the bench, utterly knackered. His first seat since whenever, the bus!
Then he opened the food, used the fork to break up the fish. It was tough and the fork was made of soft plastic.
He had heard of catfish but just really the name. It was a good-sized solid fish. Did it look like a cat? He lifted it up in his fingers. It was quite stiff, ye could hold it and just eat it. He took the first bite. And it was tasty, jees, a real mouthful. He used the fork to get some of the relish: onions were in it and a liquidy kind of stuff. He coughed and swallowed a mouthful of water. Usually he liked it peppery. It was chopped-up red chillies. He tried some of the relish on his finger. Very hot, but tasty. He was eating everything. Even the lettuce. Lettuce was good; he liked it. He never used to. Now he did.
Another customer at the foodstall, a wee man. Him and the guy that worked there were chatting, laughing together. Probably they knew each other and were speaking in Spanish. Hot dog cat fish. Ha ha ha. Maybe laughing at Murdo. A dollar tip. So what? Ha ha. He was enjoying the food. He ate the lot, wiped his fingers and sat an extra five minutes sipping the water then was onto his feet again. He kept the napkins and stuffed the rubbish into a bin which was about overflowing. It was getting cold. Not cold so much as cool. He had other clothes in the rucksack, if it got like cold as in really really cold where ye were shivering and not able to get warm. This was just cool. Not really cold at all. He pulled on the rucksack, gripped the accordeon-case handle, then was walking again. Where? Where was he going? He walked a while, not thinking about stuff, or not seeming to think about stuff; maybe he was but not registering what it was; just like whatever, a mix of stuff. His mind did that like one thing to another, just leaping about, stupid. Because where was he going? Maybe there was someplace. Where? He would see it when he got there! His feet would lead him. People said that, Oh my feet led me. Ye closed yer eyes: Right feet, on ye go, then they tripped up and ye fell on yer face.
Later he laid down the accordeon-case and cupped his hands, blew into them. He stood for a while. The streets were quiet, very very. He was by the entrance to a venue now closed for the night. He felt like he had been walking for hours. Had he ever stopped? Yes, to eat a fish. He sat on a bench and ate a fish. His hands were still greasy.
He just had to keep walking. It was important. Why? Just because. Because what? Something would happen. What? Something. Definitely.
One thing was the toilet: he hadnt been since Baton Rouge. Whatever they called it here, washroom, restroom. But if ye couldnt find one? What did ye do if ye couldnt find one? An actual lavatory. Ye couldnt take a chance and just do it someplace because if ye got caught, like the cops or somebody just seeing ye and shooting ye down in cold blood.
He lifted the accordeon-case and continued walking.
But if ye couldnt find one and didnt have a choice like if ye were bursting and really needed to go, like really really, ye were desperate, then ye had to, because ye had no choice ye had no choice.
The next street corner. He would get to there. Then the one after that, he would just walk to there, jeesoh. Could he do another one?
Probably there werent any toilets. He had the festival street map in the rucksack but was wary of taking it out to read. Nobody was walking. If anybody came along and saw ye with a map they would know ye were a stranger and that wasnt good, that was risky.
Maybe turning back was best.
Where was he?
Ha ha.
That happened; ye turned a corner then another and another and ye wound up lost. But it wasnt good to stand still.
Ye dont do anything standing still. Ye have to walk. Murdo did, just forwards, but then maybe not, maybe best just
What? Thinking about it first. Was it best to go back? Where to, the bus station! Ha ha.
That was the trouble, he wasnt thinking, he wasnt thinking at all he was just like — whatever, just whatever, walking, walking and walking.
Whereabouts? Where was he?
Ye aye hoped ye were on a square so ye turned a corner and followed a straight line backwards or forwards and then ye would be out but what if the streets went at an angle so then ye went wherever, north instead of west. Angle lines are straight. Even the line of a circle! When is a circle not a circle? Please sir infinity. Please sir three right sides, a point a point a point.
Maybe he was lost. Was he lost? Maybe he was. Not lost but just away from everything. Not everything, just everything that is like
He walked closely by the wall of a building where the light was a little better.
A block farther on the pavement became more shadowy; this building of an older type with ordinary doorways and in one was an edge of something
like a body
like wrapped in a blanket, a body.
It was. A tuft of hair poking out. A man’s head. Jeesoh. A man’s head; a man asleep, African-American, snoozing, but ye couldnt hear him, ye couldnt hear his breath.
Murdo had stepped aside along by the edge of the kerb, turning the next corner and walking fast, faster, just in case of whatever, guys sneaking up and jumping ye, and on into another street, wee and narrow. Dark and like pitch black even; and not a sound. He was not worried; definitely not worried but just like where was he going where was he going! Jeesoh. Having to take the chance but this was for a pee, he could pee, jees, it was so so dark. He stepped in at the side of where it was, set down the accordeon-case, stepped a little way off and urinated wherever wherever, into the street just, hoping, hoping, doing it as fast as fast made possible, just like — oh God…
Then grabbing the accordeon-case he was quickly walking walking yes thank God, thank God, thank you God, keeping to the outside edge of the kerb and away from the wall.