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FRYING PAN / Charles Kuschinski COMING HOME TO MY APARTMENT building on a hot Saturday afternoon, I saw my new downstairs neighbor, Sydney, hunched over on the stoop, his head sunk between his fists. I sat down beside him. "What's the trouble?" "I can't stay here. I have to move out." "But you just moved in!" I said, putting concern into my voice. "What happened?" He scrutinized my face. His own face, young and trembling, had watery blue eyes, red hair, traces of freckles. AU the skin on its creamy white surface jiggled like a pudding. "I don't mind telling you. I was mugged." I glanced quickly up and down the street. "Just now?" "Half an hour ago. Maybe fifteen or twenty minutes. I'm still recovering." His voice registered a mixture of fear, shock, and selfimportance . "Right here?" "No. First Street. That little bit of a street. You know where the old men play bocci?" "I know." "I ran almost all the way back. I don't think I stopped till I crossed the Bowery. I still don't believe it. I've got to sit till I get used to it." "Did they hurt you?" "No. They only got my money. I have to calm down first so I can think straight." "It's a pain in the ass," I said, intending to show sympathy. "Not just the money, but if they got your wallet you've got to replace all those cards. . ." "They didn't get my wallet!" he interrupted. "I'm stupid, but I'm not that stupid. I wasn't carrying a wallet. But they got the money." "How much?" I asked softly. "Nine hundred dollars." I whistled. "Now you'll know to carry travellers' cheques," I said for a joke. He looked as glum as before. "Listen, Sydney, you can tell me about it. It's none of my business, but nine hundred dollars doesn't sound like an ordinary mugging. Were you out on the street?" He shook his head no. He scrutinized me again, and said, "I'll tell you anything you want to know. I don't have anything to hide, I just have to move out of this neighborhood. Maybe if I tell you it will help me clear my head." "That's right. Listen, you just lost a hell of a lot of money. I'll buy you The Missouri Review ยท 43 a drink. You can tell me at your leisure." He hesitated. "I don't drink much." "This is the time for it," I said jovially. "On me. Take you to the Tin Palace. Almost empty this early. Cool inside. Nice soft jazz on the juke box. You ought to pamper yourself while you ease off and get back to normal." I took his elbow. He was small. Pretty, too, in a pasty sort of way. As we walked, he carried himself with an odd combination of arrogance and timidity. I noticed the left front pocket of his slacks was torn, and I wondered if that had to do with the mugging. While we were still walking across the Bowert to the chic, awninged bar, he started telling me his tale of woe. "They threw a real fright into me. I can't stay around here. They'll recognize me. I wouldn't rat on them, but they don't know that. They'd have to shut me up." "Do they know where you live?" "No. But I'm so close they might run across me. One of them, Raul, I know him better, sells loose joints in Washington Square. I can't go to Washington Square any more." We went inside. We sat at a table so that the early waitress, Kelly, served us. I ordered a gin and tonic for Sydney and a scotch for myself. "You were robbed," I said to him. "You said you could identify them. Why don't you call the police?" Sydney laughed. "What would I tell them?" he asked. "Dumb middle class college white boy gets mugged trying to score some dope on the Lower East Side. How could I prove it? And even if I could, what...

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