from the 'fat man'

He  wandered while listening to the voices  in  his  ear;  a feminine singer,  in  a  chamber,  who  softly  died  in the full, sad trembling  of  her  voice.  He  turned  the  volume  down  as  a  man  announced, 'things to sell, things to sell.'   

The  station's activity had waned in the mid- morning.    A  few  students  and  elderly   people  purchased  tickets  from the  silver  machines.   A  Chinese gentleman tapped his cane into the automated  entrance  and  fell   forward,  up righted himself,  taptaptap against the vinyl, his  face shriveling in sunken fear as he heard a voice  amplified out of a concealed speaker  telling  the  old,  blind  gentleman to move this way,  now  that  way,  yes  go forward now and through the gate  the  Chinese gentleman tapped his cane toward the stairs leading down to the platform.   He was led down the  stairs  and  the fat man watched from  the  railing above as  the  gentleman was given a seat  on  the polished bench waiting for the train.   

The  fat man,  too,  watched for  the  train.  They  came fast,  shouting out of the tunnel like a  silver umbilical cord.  He hummed from his throat.  He pushed his belly in and out from the  diaphragm  as  the  teachers had said and then got his  throat  cleared.  

Near him he didn't see the young woman,  too,  looking  over the railing and beginning to light  a long white cigarette.   She threw her head back and put her purse on the railing half-looking from  the periphery at the headphones the fat man wore on his  ears.   It  wasn't the headphones but the streamers  from  them of all colors- the kind of things a  kid  might  stick on the handle bars of his  bike.   Then  she heard what sounded like a voice.   She was  not  preoccupied  at the moment but soon enough would be and until that time became fascinated by the  fact  that  the  fat man was mumbling to himself  or  she  believed  it  to  be  mumbling- a  distinct  mumble   without  words  or several words  hunched  together  like sexed animals frozen in a voyeurs camera.   A  small grin crossed her pretty,  oval face.   It was  unpainted and pretty, early exotic but plain too as  though  she  had tried many things but had  finally  given  up out of failure to live up to  a  fleeting image of herself years before.   She dropped an ash on the floor and crushed it with her foot.  The fat  man  could smell the smoke and resisted the urge to  turn. The words were forming at his lips hobbling   
outward as newspapers snapped below along the bench  the old blind gentleman sat on.   

The fat man took one cup off his ear and bent  it  in the direction of the tunnel where the  train  would  come at any moment.   His eyes shut  and  he  seemed  to  grip  inside  himself with  a  kind  of  frenetic  tension  no one could tell  unless  they  looked up closely and for a long time,  looking  at his neck  quiver and bulge.   

The  woman was waiting for someone to  arrive  from below.   He would come and take her away.  But  until that time came she listened,  even competed  to  form  in her own mind the  inarticulate  sounds  forming  at  the  lips  of the  fat  man  and  then escaping  into the air.   They were like mud cakes.  And  the fingers of her mind bent through the soft tissues  and  lifted them lower,  drawing a long  circular  design.   

Now the sounds became guttural.    The sounds  of senility.   At that moment an old red-faced  man  sat  in the public library on Kittredge Street  and  played  his  senility on his old throat,  his  body shuddering  under his inhuman noise.   People  left him  alone.   And bent over the map  table  looking through  the  demographic maps and then the  aerial  maps  he grunted against his will and  again  and  again  against  his  will and yet in  a  kind  of  despising song as though he'd been a bullfrog in  a  former  life.   He  did not leap or jump  from  the behind  the table but shuffled away,  straw hat  on his head   and  shuffled  with  all  the  impunity  his grunting conjured.   

The  fat  man  was  not  grunting.    He  was  mumbling  with  the headphones askew on  his  head.  The woman finished her cigarette and dropped it tothe floor and took out of her purse a pair of  dark  glasses  she slid over her hair and onto her  ears.  The  sound in her mind had been shaped into a  cone  and  around the cone a figure cut a spiral trail to  the top.   She was tapping her foot.  The cigarette  was  crushed.    She  looked  at  her  watch.   The  mumbling at her side was a thing now.  The mumbling had  frozen  into  a  thing- a kind  of   window on which was drawn a round bare head smiling abstractly ear to ear though there were no ears  but pin holes where one could fit a string.   

Suddenly,    'The...they...they   will   come  soon...and..an...the                         yellow   
moon. ..w. ..will ...shimmer  over the...hills  of...o   
those  hills  of ...'  It was breath in  half-song.   
He       sneezed.         'T...those...hills...were   
brown...trees green...these hills...of long ago.'   

He  had remembered it quite  often;  how  the days after rain provided wild cat tracks and though the  cats were never found cows were.   Usually they huddled grazing at the bottom of the valley and the three  boys followed the fresh prints in  the  soft muck along winding trails cut into the hills by the constant  movement of cattle.   Bravely they hooted  the  cows.   And  teased the bull who  stood  dazed  along  a thick green pond.   And who  roamed  half  
seriously as the boys chanted together those words  not  permitted in any other valley;  but the  dried  yellow eyes fixed as flies buzzing dung.   So, the boys  picked up a grassy stone the size of  a  fish and onetwothree bounced it off the hide of the bull  their brains excited about the prospect of the bull  drawing its hooves through the yellowing ground and their  hearts beat half- rhymed and soon the valley filled with a melodious choirs of moo's.   

They  were  standing  now below  him  on  the platform.  A  young woman gripped the arm  of  the blind  Chinese  gentleman.   Before long the  train would  arrive- a train he'd taken only once and  it seemed  to him to be only a ride through  dark  lit tunnels and blue flicking light.   

And afterwards he had run into Pickett.  This  happened  the  summer before- that summer that  had  turned  into a sweaty beast and by the time he  had  reached the station his tee-shirt was dry and cool.  The station had been cool as a good night and empty except  for  a young man swinging  a  little  angel  between  his  legs  before he swooped her on  his  shoulders gracefully.  The fat man wandered through the station for an hour inspecting it as though  it were  the  ribbed hull of a Viking long ship  newly  discovered at an excavation site.   

When  he  returned  from the  train  ride  he  wanted  to revive into the fastidious cool  air  of  the  BART station and stood for a long while at the  colored  map by the ticket machine tracing with  his  finger the steps he had recently made and  deciding then  and  there that the next ride would be  under  the bay to San Francisco.  But after a time he felt  a  sharp jab in his shoulder and turned  around  to find  himself  face to face with a tall,  thin  man wearing  a  blue uniform and a  name-tag  over  his  breast reading simply, PICKETT.   

'What are you up to?'   

The man had a long, scarred nose which beaked  slightly-at the end and wide-set eyes that appeared  to roam.   

'Nothing,' the fat man replied.  The attendant stood erect, hands held tightly  against his hips.  His neck grew red.   

'It  looks  like  nothin' ...sure  looks  like  nothin'.'   

The fat man turned away to the map.   He felt  the  presence  of  the employee behind him  and  the  hairs  along  the  surface  of  his  skin  pricked.  Finally,  without turning around, the fat man said,   

'I'm busy.'   

Pickett  nodded like men at a  dinner  table.  'I bet  you are.   But look here...loitering is  a  criminal  offense...Five hundred dollars  fine  and  six  months  in  the pokey.  Now  get  your...three  legs...get' em  up  the escalator  and  don't...no,  don't stay around here.'   

The fat man smiled and turned around. 'I  will not loiter.'  And he walked over  to  the  railing, ambled to a stop and  learned  over,  humming,  until  Pickett  caught  up with  him  and  demanded to know what he was doing.   
'I'm serenading the train.'   

Pickett  took a deep look into the fat  man's  eyes  and he reminded the fat man of a stranger  in  the street who always asked for a dime or quarter.   

He  whistled in the accompaniment to the  feminine  singer who sang in a chamber  and  who  softly  died behind the half-sad trembling  of  her voice.   Then a train sped below.  He bent  over  a  railing and watched the  doors  slide  open  and  they opened  then closed like  the  hills of Hamlin.   
 

'What's that?'   

The  fat  man straightened  himself  and  sucked through his nose.   

'I  am a great composer of music and  go  by     the    name    of     Garabaldi- Sergio  Garabaldi ...ever hear of me?'   

The attendant held his hands in front of  his face and spoke through his fingers.  Facetiously he said, 'You're a bum.'  Well now, the cows moved on and the boys  dipped  their glassy jars into the mucky stink  and  caught the silver pollywogs and kept  them  home  until they were frogs but some  of  the  frogs  escaped through a hedge of  pyracantha  that made the birds drunk and  crazy  like abandoned planes.   

'You  don't  believe  me?' the  fat  man  asked.   

The attendant rubbed his chin.  'No, hell, I believe everyone.' 

'A concert will be played Friday in this   
station...'   

'It   is .a  fifty  dollar   fine   for  loitering'  the attendant said quietly.   

'There  will  be  a  hundred   musicians  dressed  in  white tails all with  chrome  and  wood instruments  and  I  will  lead  with  a  baton...'   

After  a long pause a  train  came  into the station and as  it  slipped  onward the attendant said, 'Well now, you just  do  the Fat Man's Waltz,' and then he  grinned  eagerly,   'the   Fat  Man's  Waltz  up   the  escalator.'   

The  fat  man's finger withered  in  the  air.   

'Ah,  children...everywhere  I am  stuck  with children.'   

And then he went away back to the ticket  machine  to  buy a ticket though there was  no  he thought  of going but to spite the  book-nosed  man  and his refusal to 'Waltz' to  the  man's  arrogant  tone of voice he bought a ticket and in  hand  the ticket passed  him  through  the   
automatic  gate  and as he stood on the  first  step in a long series of steps leading to  the  arrival  and departure area he turned his head  and said to the observing attendant.   

'But you'll have to listen, won't you?'   

And   then   the   trip   occurred   and  unexpected things happened which made the fat  man  wish  he had been arrested  in  fact  and  thrown  one night in the city jail rather  than  feeling   the  knives  of  complete  and  true   strangers ripped his soft, heaving flesh.   

Now  at the beginning of winter he  felt  calm  and  assured  as he listened  to  a  new  singers  voice; a roughish voice that  turned  the fat man's brows into triggers.   

The     song     was     a     complaint  by a desperate woman and  the  fat  man  turned the volume up and he surveyed below him  a  silver  train pulling like umbilical  knots  into the station.              

After  the train left he  looked  around  for  Pickett.   In  the information booth  two  attendants were surrounded by television  monitors  and neither of them had hooked noses, in fact,  one  had a nose pushed slightly into his  face  like an old boxer's nose.   

Lowering  the  headphones  his  eyes  widened and words lit in his brain, 'an air of  tempest'  and  he  smiled  to  himself  as  if  jesting inside with banjo's and swords.   

'What  can I do for you?'  An  attendant  asked  stepping  to the oval window cut  into  the  information booth.   The man  immediately  felt in his pocket for cigarettes.   

'Just   wondering  where  the  man  with  the...that nose is...is he here?'   

'You mean Pickett?   Naw,  Pickett  left  months ago to start his own business.   Has his own truck and tools now.  Calling cards.   

The  attendant lit a cigarette and wiped  a drop of sweat from his forehead.  His   head  turned to the side in a kind of pose.   

'You a friend of his?   

The  fat man shook his  head.  'Curious,  that's all.'   

He put the headphones back on and headed  for the stairs.   The song was over.   A voice  announced the accidents of, the past hour.   

'ON  THE FREEWAY- IN THE BAY- RAIN TODAY  AND TOMORROW,  CLEARING BY FRIDAY- PATCHY FOG   
INLAND- GYPSIES  SPOTTED ALONG THE  SCARPS  OF  MOUNT DIABLO- WILD FROGS IN BODEGA-  
NUTATIONS  IN  AN  EQUATORIAL LABORATORY A WORD FROM  THE  SPONSOR.'   

The  station was beginning to fill  with  the noon crowd,  wet, buttoned-up, moving from machine to machine.   
.  
He moved like a sloth to the top of  the  stairs  and  let the light mist settle in  his  eyebrows.    Patches   of  light   alternately  obscured  and  revealed,  drifted  eastward  on  clouds and for a moment he felt like a man  in  a  fight rolling on the ground and getting  to  his  feet fears he's on a different  planet  and   everything  around  animates  with  wild  motion like enthusiastic crowds.   

He  drew  in  the  orange  and   gibbous library  across the street and waited for  the  light  to  change.   Then  thunder  broke  and  echoed  like  porcelain jugs and drops of  rain  came heavier and he lifted his  head,  opening  his  mouth  wide- ever wider to let  the  rain  fall  into   his mouth and dissolve on  the  soft palate like a sweet candy.   

The  light  changed and he  half-danced,  head up,  to Dolly Parton across two lines  of  windshield  wipers  cutting  clean  the  faces  staring  at  him  as though he  were  a  Modoc  Indian;   the   black  tongues  of  his  shoes flapping crazily.    
 

Oakland, 1979 

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