Well, it was a little odd. But then, down there the odd is normal, the
normal odd. I didn't think anything of it.
I sat a couple of hours. One jug went and then another. It did seem
to me that Wino Jones missed by a lot on proving out his nickname. At
least he didn't love up the passing bottle as though it might be the
last one in the world--which, as every skid-row pro desperately fears,
it might very well turn out to be.
Stanley's drinking? I didn't notice.
After a while I wandered off. My appreciation of the fact that I was
able to wander off was shored up again and I was glad enough to get
back to work the next day without thinking anything much more about it.
I didn't think about Wino Jones or Stanley again till the first of the
next week. Then I was on early shift at the paper, due in at six A.M.
At quarter to, I yawned my way out of Mad Miguel's after coffee, an egg
and hotcakes. Mig's hotcakes were hot, too; made them with chili. Hard
on the stomach, but they popped the old eyelids open in the morning. As
I stood a minute in the doorway, my watering eyes spotted Wino Jones
coming out of the alley that led around to Mig's kitchen side. He saw
me but, thoughtfully, didn't crack till I gave him a, considering the
time, reasonably bright hello.
"How's it, Ed? You going on early, uh?"
"Yeah, Wino--ah--Jonesy. Mind if I call you Jonesy?" He didn't. "What's
with you? Been washing a dish for the Mig?"
He nodded. Some of the upper-level boys from the row worked off and
on at odd jobs like that. It didn't make Jones unique, but it made him
stand out a little.
"Me and Stanley, we like a little change in our pockets. Right,
Stanley?"
He looked down and a little to one side, just as though he were asking
agreement from someone. Only there wasn't anyone there. There wasn't
anyone in sight on the block but Jones and me.
* * * * *
But Jones smiled and nodded warmly at the short vacancy beside him and
then looked back at me. "Stanley here, he come by to meet me after
work. Mr. Mig, he let me fix us a bite of breakfast when I finish up
the night."
I looked again at where Stanley was supposed to be standing and then,
blankly, back at Jones. He shrugged almost unnoticeably and, I thought,
barely shook his head.
"Well-l--" he said, "I expect me and Stanley better drift back on down
to the Yard before some fuzz comes along and fans us down."
"Yeah?" I said. "Yeah. So long, Jonesy--Stanley."
I don't know why I added the "Stanley" but, obscurely, it seemed to
please Jones. He gave me a big smile and then walked off down the
street, chatting companionably to--no one. I didn't get it. Well,
Stanley present or absent rated very low on the list of the problems I
was going to worry about. I went to work.
I ran into Jones every morning during the week I was on early; Jones,
coming off work, with Stanley--who wasn't there. Odd, sure. But if
Jones was stringing a way-out gag or playing with a mild hallucination,
still it was nothing to me.
I did mention it to Mig, who only said, "Si, these one big hombre eat
big. He like two plate eat for breakfast, plate he wash, bueno, what
for I complain?"
So that was all. Nothing.
Toward the end of the next week, I wandered down to the Yard again and
joined the little group of exponents of gracious almost-living by the
wall. Jones wasn't there. But as I was settling down I glanced over
at the Broad Street side of the square and I saw him strolling along
toward us. He was smiling, talking, gesturing. He was alone. I looked
twice. There was no one with Jones.
I settled down, took a drag or two on a smoke and passed it along.
Lifted a jug. Got back the old lost, gone, miserable feel of the thing
again. I looked up then at Jones who was just coming around the mangy
clump of bushes by the path. With him was a sour, whispy, scarcely
noticeable little man. Stanley.
"Evening, Jonesy," I said, "and Stanley. Good to see you again." I
meant it even though, come to think, it didn't really clear anything
up. Jones gave me his smile and Stanley nodded suspiciously.
They moved in and joined the group. Somebody made a run; a couple. The
talk staggered around as usual. Topics: booze; money, yesterday's and
tomorrow's; booze; women--only occasionally and with mild, decayed
interest; booze.
Jones put in a soft word or two from time to time until he finally
stood up, stretched and said he was going up to Mig's. Stanley stayed.
I know he did. I watched him. Afterward, I tried to remember if he said
anything, but that I couldn't recall.
I went on home myself a while after Jones left. Stanley was still
there, though, when I glanced back from Broad Street, I couldn't pick
him out in the dim moon and street light.
Still nothing much, eh?
* * * * *
The next week I came on work at ten and I didn't see Jones--or not see
Stanley--all week. Friday, I was back down at the Yard. That was out
of my pattern. Usually one visit in a month or so was plenty. But now,
for whatever reason, I was getting kind of interested in Jones--and
Stanley.
This time Jones was there hunkered down against the wall when I
wandered up. Coaster Joe squatted on one side of him. On the other
side, no one. I looked; I looked close. There was no one there. Still,
when I nodded around, I nodded at the empty space. Noticed that
Bootnose Bailey was missing. A mild surprise. Bootnose and a bottle
were nearly as much Yard fixtures as Gen. Scott in bronze and pigeons.
I settled in. A little time and a jug went by. I still didn't see
Stanley.
My curiosity finally insisted on a remark. "Jonesy, I--haven't seen
Stanley tonight."
Jones smiled, not quite as easy and relaxed as usual. "Stanley isn't
around tonight. He went someplace."
"Oh? Well, that's good." It seemed a safe statement. If Stanley had
been in jail, Jones would have said so. Any other place was bound to be
better. I was being unjustifiably nosy, but curiosity wouldn't let me
drop it. "Where did he go?"
Jones shrugged. Then, seriously, "To tell the truth, Ed, I don't
rightly know. Fact is, I been a mite worried about old Stanley lately."