But Beautiful. Geoff Dyer
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He thought about Nellie and the song he was writing for her, a private thing for piano that no one else would touch. Once he’d written it it would be finished – he’d play it just as it was, unaccompanied with no improvising. He didn’t want Nellie to change and he didn’t want his song about her to change either. As he looked out across the river a smear of yellow-brown light welled up over the skyline like paint squeezed from a tube. For a few minutes the sky was a blaze of dirty yellow until the light faded and oil-spill clouds sagged again over New Jersey. He thought about heading back to the apartment but stayed on in the sad twilight and watched dark boats crawl over the water, the grief of gulls breaking over them.
Driving to a gig at the Comedy Store, Baltimore. With him Nica and Charlie Rouse, friends for life. Virtually everything Monk did he did for life. Pulled into a motel in Delaware. Monk was thirsty, which meant he had to have a drink. Everything was like that with him. He’d stay up three or four days straight because he didn’t feel like sleep and then he’d sleep solidly for two days, anywhere. If he wanted something he had to have it. He walked into the lobby, filling the doorframe, looking dark as a shadow to the desk clerk who jumped slightly when he saw him. Unnerved not just by his blackness, his size, but by the way he ambled in there like an astronaut. Something about him, not just the eyes either, his whole bearing, looking like a statue that might fall over at any moment. And something else too. That morning the booking clerk had scouted around his apartment for clean underwear. Unable to find any, he’d put on a pair of shorts he’d already worn for three long days, blemished yellow and giving off a vague smell, he kept wondering if other people noticed. Monk happened to sniff as he came into the room and that did it, that was one of the things that did it. Maybe nothing would have happened if he’d had clean shorts, but as it was, the slight stickiness, the itch that had been there all day became unbearable when this huge coloured walked in, sniffing the air like it was dirty. Immediately he said there were no rooms, before Monk had even uttered a word. Staring, wearing a crazy hat like he was a pope or cardinal in Africa.
—Saywhaman? Whatever he said lost in a saliva-strangle of sound. A voice like it was coming over the radio from Mars.
—No vacancies. I’m afraid we have no rooms.
—Tayuhglassawar.
—Water?
—Yauh.
—You want water?
Monk nodded like a sage, standing in front of the man, like he was getting in his way, obstructing his view. Something about him was making the desk clerk shake with anger. The way he was standing there, like a striker on a picket line, determined not to budge. Couldn’t get a fix on him, not a hobo, dressed . . . dressed – shit, he couldn’t tell rightly how he was dressed: tie, suit, coat – the clothes were smart but he looked a mess, like his shirttails were hanging out or like he was not wearing socks.
—No water, the booking clerk said finally, the words gurgling out like the first rusty belch of water from a tap suddenly twisted.
—No water, he said again, clearing his throat. He was more frightened now, the coloured’s yellow eyes staring at him like two planets in space. Even more unnerving was the way Monk was staring not at his eyes but at a spot two inches above them. Quickly he passed a hand over his forehead, feeling for a zit.
—No water. You hear me?
The coloured stood there, like he’d turned to stone, like he’d gone into some nigger trance. He’d never seen anyone so black. Now he was thinking that the coloured was maybe mentally defective in some way, dangerous, a maniac. Staring at him like that.
—You hear me, boy – he felt more confident now, as soon as he called him boy he felt the situation becoming less a specific confrontation between two individuals, more something general, like he had people on his side, backing him up, a man with a mob behind him.
—This a hotel you don’t got a glassawar? Must be lot a thirsty muthafuckahs all them full rooms you got.
—Don’t get smart, don’t even think about getting smart—
At that moment Monk moved a step forward, blocking the light completely, becoming a silhouette; looking into his face was like stepping into a cave on a bright day.
—Now we don’t want any trouble here, said the booking clerk. The word ‘trouble’ smashed like a bottle. His chair squeaked back an involuntary inch, anxious to keep the same distance between him and this man looming over him like a cliff. Looked down at the coloured’s hands hanging at his side, a big cheek-ripping ring on one finger. That’s when it occurred to him that if he had a gun he’d have pulled it on him – looking back on it later he realized it was this thought on his part rather than anything the coloured had done that escalated the situation. Each word triggered the next. The word ‘trouble’ pulled the word ‘gun’ out of its holster and the word ‘gun’ brought the word ‘police’ hurrying after it.
—Like I said, we don’t want no trouble here, so you leave quickly or I’m calling the police.
Standing there, dumb as stone, dumb like the only two words he knew were ‘glass’ and ‘water’. The expression on his face had changed now, like he wasn’t seeing anything at all, like he didn’t know where he was, no idea. Swelling up in himself like he might explode at any moment. The clerk was almost too terrified to dial the police, worried that might be the action to spring him out of whatever he was in – but doing nothing was even more frightening. Decided the way to do it was as blatantly as possible, tugging the phone over, picking the receiver up slowly, dialling like he was dipping his finger in a pot of maple syrup.
—Police? All the time he was speaking he kept one eye, both eyes, on the coloured, whose only movement was the rise and fall of his chest. Breath.
—Well, he’s refusing to leave. Standing there like I don’t know, like he’s gonna cause trouble . . . I’ve told him that . . . Yes, I think he might be dangerous.
He had just replaced the phone – slowly, like everything he was doing now – when another coloured and some rich-looking woman came bustling into the lobby.
—Thelonious? What’s happened?
Before he had a chance to speak the booking clerk intervened.
—This freak with you? His fear was subsiding, he felt confident now of his ability to goad the situation any which way he liked. The woman looked at him like he was an insect crawling along a wall. The kind of woman who wherever she went would be surrounded by lawns of privilege, even her politeness a form of contempt, the friendliness she lavished on some serving to remind others of the riches they were excluded from.
—What’s going on, Thelonious?
Still not speaking, just that glare turned on the booking clerk.
—You’d better stick around, lady. The police are on their way and they’ll want to ask some questions.
—What?
—Be here any minute.
By some tacit agreement the woman – sounding like the queen of England – and the other coloured manoeuvered him out of the lobby, back to the car. Monk had got into the driver’s seat and turned the engine on just as the cops arrived, three of them clambering out of the car. The desk clerk ushered them over to the automobile, keeping in back, out of sight. A flurry of questions, the cops barely polite, not knowing what to make of it but knowing some show of nightstick authority was called for. Told him to turn off the key, the engine. He ignored them, stared straight ahead like he was concentrating hard on the road on a foggy night, unsure of the way. One of the cops reached in, twisted off the ignition himself. The English woman saying something.
—Lady, you just keep quiet. I want everybody outta the car. Him first . . . Hey, you, get outta the car.
The coloured hunched over the wheel, hands perfectly positioned like he was the captain on the bridge of a ship passing through a storm.
—Listen, you fuckin deaf or somethin? Outta the car, get outta the fuckin car.
—Let