Harvey Porter Does Dallas (2 page)

“Yes? So?”

Harvey Porter lit up a cigarette. Bailey figured he was fifteen or sixteen, but he was built like a full grown man. He had muscles that bulged and a tattoo of a saxophone on his left bicep. He was at least six feet tall, and was more than a little scary. He had that swarthy complexion and that ugly scar between his eyebrows.

“Young man, what is it you want here?”

“I told you, we're relatives and I need a place to stay. I've been basically on the street for the past six years. My dodger's name was Harvey Porter, so I just took it on for myself after he died.”

Bailey knew that “dodger” was street people slang for a mentor or a guide. “When did this man, the
real
Harvey Porter die?”

“About a week ago. We could all see it comin'. He was almost 70 and had trouble breathing. So much so that he had to quit playin' his sax on street corners. That was the only money he made, and it wasn't much.”

Bailey could just imagine. A tramp with a coffee can on a street corner playing a saxophone for money. It was the kind of fraud Bailey strictly avoided. “But what does any of this have to do with my family?” he demanded.

“Just before Harvey died,” replied Harvey, “he told me if I ever needed a port in the storm Mushrush at this address would take me in, because they were relatives.”

“You keep saying that. What kind of relatives? How could anyone in my family be related to
you
?”

“That's a mystery to me too, Pops. He never said how. He just said you were relatives and would take me in if he died.”

“Relatives of
his?
Or
yours
?”

“That would be me, Pops.”

“Will you quit calling me that? My name is Bailey Mushrush. That's Mister Mushrush to you. And I'm certainly not your “pop” or your father.”

“I might shorten it to
Mr: M
. Would that be cool?”

By now Bailey was confused and annoyed by this entire preposterous conversation. “Yeah, yeah, that's okay,” he said with a wave of his hand. “I'll tell you the best we can do for you. You can stay with us for a couple of days until we get this relative thing figured out. After that, you'll probably be on the street again. Maybe you can be somebody's dodger.”

“That's cool, Mr. M. Thanks.”

“By the way, how'd you get that ugly scar?”

“I was knifed in a street brawl with Carlos Villanueva. Some of his brown bread stools ganged up on me.”

“And you survived?” Bailey recognized the name of Villanueva. He was one of Dallas' most notorious gang leaders, arrested so often for criminal behavior that he was a person anyone would know who read the local newspapers.

“I not only survived,” said Harvey, smiling for the first time, “but I beat the shit out of him. He walked funny for more'n two weeks.”

Bailey just shook his head. He had no words. “Like I said, you can stay for a couple of days until we get this phony relative thing sorted out.”

“I'm cool with that,” said Harvey. “It might be a hoot; I've never stayed with white bread before.”

Bailey banged on the door until BoBo came to peek out through the cracked opening. “Unlock the door, Bobo, we're coming inside.”

“Who's the scumbag with you?”

“I've warned you about using that kind of vulgar language. His name is Harvey Porter. I'm sure he'll be glad to tell you all about himself.” Then the door swung wide, making room for Bailey and Harvey to enter.

Bobo was nearly as tall as Harvey, but so fat he probably outweighed him by 150 pounds. One good look at Harvey, and BoBo was plenty scared. The scar made even Harvey's smiles look like leers.

“Bobo,” instructed Bailey, “take Harvey upstairs to your room. You can clean out your walk-in closet to make room for a cot. He'll need a place to sleep.”

“All my stuff?” Bobo whined.

“Yes. All of it.”

Bobo whined again: “But where am I s'posed to put it all?”

“You'll have to store it in the basement,” his father replied. “There's enough room down there if you move a few things out of the way.”

Bobo waddled up the stairs with his face in a pout. Harvey followed after, lugging the suitcase. There were posters of Dallas Cowboys players on the wall of Bobo's room. Harvey had no interest in sports heroes, but he was flexible.

He asked Bobo, “Where's Mrs. M.?”

“Ms. M.?” Bobo asked.

“Your mother. Your father's wife.”

“She works afternoons in the canning factory. She'll be coming home pretty soon. Harvey plopped his suitcase on the bed and said, “Yeah, this'll be just okay.”

“But this is
my
room,” Bobo protested.

“No, fatboy, this
used
to be your room.” He pointed at the huge closet. “There's your new room.”

Bobo's eyes turned wide, at least as wide as they could get in his pudgy face. “But you can't just take over my room,” he whined.

“I can't?” Harvey said. He turned and looked Bobo straight in the eye. He put his right index finger under one of Bobo's chins. “Now, blubber-butt, say that again to me.”

Suddenly Bobo's lip began to quiver and his chins trembled. He was scared almost to death. Harvey opened his suitcase and began throwing dirty clothes on the floor. He didn't have many clothes, though. “Where's the laundry basket?” he asked.

“In my parents' room,” Bobo gulped.

“That sounds like a good place to start. Take all my dirty clothes and put them in the basket.”

“Okay,” was the quick answer. And he took Harvey's clothes into his parents' room and delivered them to the laundry basket, which was nearly full. That was probably a good thing; his mom would be doing laundry this evening.

When he got back, Harvey was staring inside the closet at the piles of video games, computer parts, and a stack of interactive TV games. The name on these games was
tubeview
. Harvey had heard of them, but never saw one work before. On the floor of the closet were boxes and boxes of toys, sports equipment, books, and old clothes.

“Will you at least help me move this stuff to the basement?” Bobo asked, his chins still quaking.

“I don't see that happening,” was Harvey's reply. “Take a look at this mess. All this crap piled everywhere. Did I make the mess?”

“N-n-o.”

“But you did?” said Harvey.

“Y-yes.”

“Okay, blimpy, first new rule: whoever
makes
the mess
takes
the mess. Sound fair?”

“Y-yes.” Bobo didn't stutter, but the presence of Harvey Porter was turning his insides to mush.

“I'll tell you what,” said Harvey. “I'll give you a break.”

“What break?”

“I'll show you what's left in the suitcase.”

Bobo waddled slowly to the bedside to look inside Harvey's suitcase. All that was left was something with an odd shape that was wrapped in a chamois. He opened it and brought out a nine-millimeter semi-automatic handgun.

Bobo gulped. About three times. “Is that
real
?” he asked Harvey.

“Would I have some reason to carry a toy gun around with me?” was the sarcastic reply. “Of course it's real.”

“D-do you d-do you ever use it?”

“Only when I'm cornered and overwhelmed. I almost had to use it on Carlos Villanueva.”

“C-c-carlos Vil-vil anueva?”

“Yeah. He gave me this nasty scar here,” said Harvey, pointing at the jagged and poorly-stitched zipper on his forehead. “But I didn't have to use it after all. I broke his jaw for him and gave him my best rabbit punches. When I left, he was all doubled up and squirming on the sidewalk.”

Carlos Villanueva?
Bobo's fear had turned to terror.

Harvey continued, “I was brown bread and so was his gang. It can get that way out on the streets.”

“You were in a brown bread street gang?”

“Yeah, eventually. But when I was younger I had to make my way in more acceptable ways, like stealing and panhandling. But that's enough of that crap. You've got a lot of work to do to set up your new bedroom. You better get started.”

Bobo's eyes were still as round as they could get. “I guess I better,” he gulped.

“And one other thing, doughboy. If you even breathe a word about all of this—the sleeping arrangement and the gun—I will take that blubber around your middle and tie it into very tight knots. Trust me on this: It won't be a pleasant experience for you.”

Bobo was still twitching and trembling and shaking. “Okay, Harvey, I pr-promise.”

Bobo made his many trips up and down the two staircases carrying armloads of stuff from the closet. Each trip was slower than the one before. He was sweating and huffing and puffing as the trips continued.

While the doughboy was engaged in this action, Harvey lay flat on
his
bed. He had found a
Playboy
magazine in one of the drawers and was thoroughly enjoying leafing his way through. His respect for the doughboy went up a notch because Bobo had
Playboys
and
Hustlers
hidden away in his drawer.

3. CANNING FACTORIES AND STORIES

Things got a little more complicated when Wilberta Mushrush returned home. In fact, they got
a lot
more complicated; Mrs. Mushrush took a shine to Harvey right away.

Her husband met her at the front door. “Did you have a nice day at the factory, dear?”

“Oh sure,” she answered sarcastically. “It was about 110 degrees in there and most of the fans weren't working.”

“That's nice,” said Mushrush. “And now I've got some news for you: We've got a visitor.”

“Who is it?” his wife wanted to know.

“We need to talk in private, let's go into the kitchen.” In the kitchen, before he mentioned Harvey, he said, “You probably better get the pot roast started; it's after five thirty.”

Wilberta scowled. As she started cutting pieces of beef and putting them into the crockpot, she asked, “So who's the visitor?”

“His name is Harvey. Harvey Porter. I think he's about sixteen and I also think he's spent most of his life on the street. Homeless, except maybe some stays at homeless shelters.”

“The poor thing.”

“Don't start with that,” snapped her husband. “Wait'll you get a look at this kid. He claims to be a relative of ours.”

“How is he related to us?”

“I have no idea. I'm sure he's not a relative.”

“Is he going to bed down with Bobo?”

“Just for a couple of days. We fixed him a cot in Bobo's walk-in closet. I think his relative claims are phony, so I've only given him permission to stay with us a couple of days. Just till we can get this family tree thing sorted out.”

Mrs. Mushrush turned, put her hands on her hips and screwed up her face. “I'm trying to think what relative he might be. I can't remember any Porters in our family.”

“Neither can I. That's one reason I think he's lying, but not the only one.”

“You don't like him, do you?”

“Absolutely not. He's street scum. Wait'll you meet him. You'll feel the same.”

“I wonder if we could start with some of the family photo albums,” Wilberta wondered, trying to take the conversation in a more positive direction.

“Yes, yes, I suppose so.” Bailey answered dully. “But have you been listening to what I've been telling you?”

“Absolutely every word, dear. Don't you worry about that.” She was peeling potatoes.

“Well, okay then,” her husband huffed, leaving the room. “Get the food on the table as fast as you can? Some of us are real hungry, especially Bobo and Sasha.”

Actually, Sasha wasn't thinking about food at all. She was stretched out on the smaller of the living room couches, watching MTV. The large-screen TV covered almost all of the south wall, in a very large room.

Bailey sat in the recliner. “They're not showing any of their vulgar stuff, I hope.”

“Yeah, Dad, whatever.”

Bailey watched for a few moments. The program was a competition about which music stars wore the skimpiest outfits in their videos. Everybody from Madonna to Britney Spears. Mushrush found himself enjoying the nubile bodies, but he said to Sasha, “This is pretty racy stuff for you to be watching.”

“Yeah, Dad, whatever.”

Mushrush wondered if Sasha was going to turn into a back-sasser like her older brother. He didn't think about it long, however. This Harvey Porter phenomenon in his own house preoccupied his mind. It was very confusing—mystifying, even—and more than a little scary.

Then Harvey and Bobo came down and seated themselves on the larger couch. Harvey couldn't believe the size of the room. The four of them were occupying only just half of it. Behind their couch were walnut floor-to-ceiling bookcases filled with hundreds of books and dozens of CD's. “Have you read all these?” he asked Bobo.

“N-no, Harvey, I haven't. I don't do much reading.”

“I've read them all,” proclaimed Bobo's father, and sporting a proud look on his blotchy face.

“That's hard to believe.”

“Not nearly as hard to believe as your story. Did you boys get the room and the closet all fixed up?” Harvey said nothing but Bobo finally said, “Yeah, we got it all done.”

“Good job, you two. You think you can be comfortable with those tight sleeping quarters, Harvey?”

“Yeah, I'm good to go. No complaints.”

“Excellent.”

Bobo didn't say a word. Harvey lit up a cigarette and took a couple of pulls. “Uh, Harvey,” said Bailey, “I'm afraid we don't allow smoking in our house.”

“That's good to know,” said Harvey with a smile. “I'll just finish this one and take that info under advisement.” Then he got up to walk to the small table with the spider plant, in front of one of the huge bookcases. He picked up the plant and returned to his seat.