on the sidewalk bleeding

The boy lay on the sidewalk bleeding in the rain. He was sixteen years

old, and he wore a bright purple jacket, and the lettering across the back

of the jacket read THE ROYALS. The boy's name was Andy and the name was

delicately scripted in black thread on the front of the jacket, just over

the heart. ANDY..

He had been stabbed ten minutes ago. The knife entered just below his rib

cage and had been drawn across his body violently, tearing a wide gap in

his flesh. He lay on the sidewalk with the March rain drilling his jacket

and drilling his body and washing away the blood that poured from his open

wound. He had known excruciating pain when the knife had torn across his

body, and then sudden comparative relief when the blade was pulled away.

He had heard the voice saying, 'That's for you Royal! " and then the sound

of footsteps hurrying into the rain, and then he had fallen to the sidewalk,

clutching his stomach, trying to stop the flow of blood.

He tried to yell for help, but he had no voice. He did not know why his

voice had deserted him, or why there was an open hole in his body from

which his life ran readily, steadily, or why the rain had become so

suddenly fierce. It was 11: but he did not know the time.

There was another thing he did not know.

He did not know he was dying. He lay on the sidewalk, bleeding, and he

thought only: That was a fierce rumble. They got me good that time, but

he did not know he was dying. He would have been frightened had he known.

In his ignorance he lay bleeding and wishing he could cry out for help,

but there was no voice in his throat. There was only the bubbling of blood

from between his lips whenever he opened his mouth to speak. He lay in

his pain, waiting, waiting for someone to find him.

He could hear the sound of automobile tires hushed on the rain swept

streets, far away at the other end of the long alley. He lay with his face

pressed to the sidewalk, and he could see the splash of neon far away at

the other end of the alley, tinting the pavement red and green, slickly

brilliant in the rain.

He wondered if Laura would be angry. He had left the jump to get a package

of cigarettes. He had told her he would be back in a few minutes, and then

he had gone downstairs and found the candy store closed. He knew that

Alfredo's on the next block would be open. He had started through the alley,

and that was when he had been ambushed.

He could hear the faint sound of music now, coming from a long, long way

off. He wondered if Laura was dancing, wondered if she had missed him yet.

Maybe she thought he wasn't coming back. Maybe she thought he'd cut out

for good. Maybe she had already left the jump and gone home. He thought

of her face, the brown eyes and the jet-black hair, and thinking of her

he forgot his pain a little, forgot that blood was rushing from his body.

Someday he would marry Laura. Someday he would marry her, and they would

have a lot of kids, and then they would get out of the neighborhood. They

would move to a clean project in the Bronx, or maybe they would move to

Staten Island. When they were married, when they had kids.

He heard footsteps at the other end of the alley, and he lifted his cheek

from the sidewalk and looked into the darkness and tried to cry out, but

again there was only a soft hissing bubble of blood on his mouth.

The man came down the alley. He had not seen Andy yet. He walked, and then

stopped to lean against the brick of the building, and then walked again.

He saw Andy then and came toward him, and he stood over him for a long

time, the minutes ticking, ticking, watching him and not speaking.

Then he said, "What's the matter, buddy'?"

Andy could not speak, and he could barely move. He lifted his face slightly

and looked up at the man, and in the rain swept alley he smelled the

sickening odor of alcohol. The man was drunk.

The man was smiling.

"Did you fall down, buddy?" he asked. "You must be as drunk as I am." He

squatted alongside Andy.

'You gonna catch cold there," he said. "What's the matter? You like layin'

in the wet?"

Andy could not answer. The rain spattered around them.

You like a drink?"

Andy shook his head.

"I gotta bottle. Here," the man said. He pulled a pint bottle from his

inside jacket pocket. Andy tried to move, but pain wrenched him back flat

against the sidewalk.

Take it," the man said. He kept watching Andy. "Take it." When Andy did

not move, he said, "Nev' mind, I'll have one m'self." He tilted the bottle

to his lips, and then wiped the back of his hand across his mouth. "You

too young to be drinkin' anyway. Should be 'shamed of yourself, drunk and

layin 'in a alley, all wet. Shame on you. I gotta good mind to call a cop."

Andy nodded. Yes, he tried to say. Yes, call a cop. Please call one.

"Oh, you don' like that, huh?" the drunk said. "You don' wanna cop to fin'

you all drunk an' wet in an alley, huh: Okay, buddy. This time you get

off easy." He got to his feet. "This time you get off easy," he said again.

He waved broadly at Andy, and then almost lost his footing. "S'long,

buddy," he said.

Wait, Andy thought. Wait, please, I'm bleeding.

"S'long," the drunk said again, "I see you around," and the he staggered

off up the alley.

Andy lay and thought: Laura, Laura. Are you dancing:?

The couple came into the alley suddenly. They ran into the alley together,

running from the rain, the boy holding the girl's elbow, the girl spreading

a newspaper over her head to protect her hair. Andy watched them run into

the alley laughing, and then duck into the doorway not ten feet from him.

"Man, what rain!" the boy said. 'You could drown out there."

"I have to get home," the girl said. "It's late, Freddie. I have to get

home."

"We got time," Freddie said. 'Your people won't raise a fuss if you're

a little late. Not with this with kind of weather."

"It's dark," the girl said, and she giggled.

'Yeah," the boy answered, his voice very low.

"Freddie . . . . ?

"Um?"

"You're ... standing very close to me."

"Um."

There was a long silence. Then the girl said, "Oh," only that single word,

and Andy knew she had been kissed , and he suddenly hungered for Laura's

mouth. It was then that he wondered if he would ever kiss Laura again.

It was then that he wondered if he was dying.

No, he thought, I can't be dying, not from a little street rumble, not

from just being cut. Guys get cut all the time in rumbles. I can't be dying.

No, that's stupid. That don't make any sense at all.

"You shouldn't," the girl said.

"Why not?"

"Do you like it?"

"Yes."

"So?"

"I don't know."

"I love you, Angela," the boy said.

"I love you, too, Freddie," the girl said, and Andy listened and thought:

I love you, Laura. Laura, I think maybe I'm dying. Laura, this is stupid

but I think maybe I'm dying. Laura, I think I'm dying

He tried to speak. He tried to move. He tried to crawl toward the doorway.

He tried to make a noise, a sound, and a grunt came, a low animal grunt

of pain.

"What was that?" the girl said, suddenly alarmed, breaking away from the

boy.

"I don't know," he answered.

"Go look, Freddie."

"No. Wait."

Andy moved his lips again. Again the sound came from him.

Freddie!"

"What?"

"I'm scared."

"I'll go see," the boy said.

He stepped into the alley. He walked over to where Andy lay on the ground.

He stood over him, watching him.

"You all right?" he asked.

"What is it?" Angela said from the doorway.

"Somebody's hurt," Freddie said.

"Let's get out of here," Angela said.

"No. Wait a minute." He knelt down beside Andy. "You cut?" he asked.

Andy nodded. The boy kept looking at him. He saw the lettering on the jacket

then. THE ROYALS. He turned to Angela.

"He's a Royal," he said.

"Let's what. . . .what . . . do you want to do, Freddie?"

"I don't know. I don't know. I don't want to get mixed up in this. He's

a Royal. We help him, and the Guardians'll be down on our necks. I don't

want to get mixed up in this, Angela."

"Is he . . . is he hurt bad?"

"Yeah, it looks that way."

"What shall we do?"

"I don't know."

"We can't leave him here in the rain," Angela hesitated. "Can we?"

"If we get a cop, the Guardians'll find out who," Freddie said. "I don't

know, Angela. I don't know."

Angela hesitated a long time before answering. Then she said, "I want to

go home, Freddie. My people will begin to worry."

"Yeah," Freddie said. He looked at Andy again. "You all right?" he asked.

Andy lifted his face from the sidewalk, and his eyes said: Please, please

help me, and maybe Freddie read what his eyes were saying, and maybe he

didn't.

Behind him, Angela said, "Freddie, let's get out of here! Please!" Freddie

stood up. He looked at Andy again, and then mumbled, "I'm sorry." He took

Angela's arm and together they ran towards the neon splash at the other

end of the alley.

Why, they're afraid of the Guardians, Andy thought in amazement. By why

should they be? I wasn't afraid of the Guardians. I never turkeyed out

of a rumble with the Guardians. I got heart. But I'm bleeding.

The rain was soothing somehow. It was a cold rain, but his body was hot

all over, and the rain helped cool him. He had always liked rain. He could

remember sitting in Laura's house one time, the rain running down the

windows, and just looking out over the street, watching the people running

from the rain. That was when he'd first joined the Royals.

He could remember how happy he was when the Royals had taken him. The Royals

and the Guardians, two of the biggest. He was a Royal. There had been

meaning to the title.

Now, in the alley, with the cold rain washing his hot body, he wondered

about the meaning. If he died, he was Andy. He was not a Royal. He was

simply Andy, and he was dead. And he wondered suddenly if the Guardians

who had ambushed him and knifed him had ever once realized he was Andy?

Had they known that he was Andy or had they simply known that he was Royal

wearing a purple silk jacket? Had they stabbed him, Andy, or had they only

stabbed the jacket and the title and what good was the title if you were

dying?

I'm Andy, he screamed wordlessly, I'm Andy.

An old lady stopped at the other end of the alley. The garbage cans were

stacked there, beating noisily in the rain. The old lady carried an

umbrella with broken ribs, carried it like a queen. She stepped into the

mouth of the alley, shopping bag over one arm. She lifted the lids of the

garbage cans. She did not hear Andy grunt because she was a little deaf

and because the rain was beating on the cans. She collected her string

and her newspapers, and an old hat with a feather on it from one of the

garbage cans, and a broken footstool from another of the cans. And then

she replaced the lids and lifted her umbrella high and walked out of the

alley mouth. She had worked quickly and soundlessly, and now she was gone.

The alley looked very long now. He could see people passing at the other

end of it, and he wondered who the people were, and he wondered if he would

ever get to know them, wondered who it was of the Guardians who had stabbed

him, who had plunged the knife into his body.

"That's for you, Royal!" the voice had said. "That's for you, Royal!" Even

in his pain, there had been some sort of pride in knowing he was a Royal.

Now there was no pride at all. With the rain beginning to chill him, with

the blood pouring steadily between his fingers, he knew only a sort of

dizziness. He could only think: I want to be Andy.

It was not very much to ask of the world.

He watched the world passing at the other end of the alley. The world didn't

know he was Andy. The world didn't know he was alive. He wanted to say,

"Hey, I'm alive! Hey, look at me! I'm alive! Don't you know I'm alive?

Don't you know I exist?"

He felt weak and very tired. He felt alone, and wet and feverish and chilled.

He knew he was going to die now. That made him suddenly sad. He was filled

with sadness that his life would be over at sixteen. He felt all at once

as if he had never done anything, never seen anything, never been anywhere.

There were so many things to do. He wondered why he'd never thought of

them before, wondered why the rumbles and the jumps and the purple jackets

had always seemed so important to him before. Now they seemed like such

small things in a world he was missing, a world that was rushing past at

the other end of the alley.

I don't want to die, he thought. I haven't lived yet. It seemed very

important to him that he take off the purple jacket. He was very close

to dying, and when they found him, he did not want them to say, "Oh, it's

a Royal." With great effort, he rolled over onto his back. He felt the

pain tearing at his stomach when he moved. If he never did another thing,

he wanted to take off the jacket. The jacket had only one meaning now,

and that was a very simple meaning.

If he had not been wearing the jacket, he wouldn't have been stabbed. The

knife had not been plunged in hatred of Andy. The knife hated only the

purple jacket. The jacket was as stupid meaningless thing that was robbing

him of his life.

He lay struggling with the shiny wet jacket. His arms were heavy. Pain

ripped fire across his body whenever he moved. But he squirmed and fought

and twisted until one arm was free and then the other. He rolled away from

the jacket and lay quite still, breathing heavily, listening to the sound

of his breathing and the sounds of the rain and thinking: Rain is sweet,

I'm Andy.

She found him in the doorway a minute past midnight. She left the dance

to look for him, and when she found him, she knelt beside him and said,

"Andy, it's me, Laura."

He did not answer her. She backed away from him, tears springing into her

eyes, and then she ran from the alley. She did not stop running until she

found a cop.

And now, standing with the cop, she looked down at him. The cop rose and

said, "He's dead." All the crying was out of her now. She stood in the

rain and said nothing, looking at the purple jacket that rested a foot

away from his body.

The cop picked up the jacket and turned it over in his hands.

"A Royal, huh?" he said.

She looked at the cop and, very quietly, she said, "His name is Andy."

The cop slung the jacket over his arm. He took out his black pad, and he

flipped it open to a blank page.

"A Royal, " he said. Then he began writing.