WENKLEMAN THE CANDY MAN
He was five foot three if he was minute.
He was fifty-three if he was a day. He came
from everywhere but went nowhere and was
see anywhere he pleased. He had been friends
with Adlai Stevenson, Edgar Rice Burroughs,
and Ted Williams too. I never knew what he was
saying - nor what he would do. Wenkleman was
the craziest man I ever knew. Spinning mad yarns,
Joe Gould himself had nothing on this guy. Every
half-step he'd ever taken had led to somewhere dark :
an ale house where old sailors had died, the old postal
landing by Water Street, where Marilyn Feighton had
been strangled too death, the markers left at the call
box by crooked cops. He knew all this stuff. He said
he called himself candy man because he was 'sweet
and everyone knew it.' Wenkleman was tough - in
place like a telephone pole and ready for anything.
-
I met him one night when the rain was pouring down
and we'd both taken shelter, with others, beneath an
overhang at some westside truck bay. It was deep night,
and the guys huddled there all all reached dead end, seen
it there, staring back at them, and just walked on - right
past it, no matter. They shared booze, stories, cigarettes
and whatever they could find to eat. A finer bunch of
midnight lunks one'd be hard-pressed to see. And anyway,
that's where I met Wenkleman - with the cap, with the
broken front tooth, without a coat, looking like he'd just
won nothing and they'd taken back the prize.
-
'Don't let this shit fool ya', kid. I ain't a nothin' like these
bums. They'd as soon stiff you than stick a fist up your ass
if they could be sure there was a dollar there. Me, I wouldn't
go near your fuckin' bum for nothin'. So quit your worryin'.
What r'you doing here anyways?' He looked at me like a
father might see his new baby in a crib. It was really dark,
but he had found some light.
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