Wasted Beauty by Eric Bogosian Page A

is in his hand and he’s trotting away through the crowd.
    His lanky frame slips through the ebb and flow of the shoppers, gets swallowed up by it. Then Billy is back, the interloper forgotten, unaware of the theft, cursing out another crate. Reba grabs a bunch of kale. The culprit is almost out of sight, blended back into the customers. And then, just before he is eclipsed by the anonymous tide, he turns and, finding her eyes, takes a bite from the apple, and is gone.
    That evening, after a meal of Popeyes fried chicken, Billy leaves the van alongside the park and locks Reba in. He says he needs a beer. She watches him lumber off, an angry black bear in search of honey.
    The trees in the park have shed their leaves and in the early winter dusk, the limbs stand hard and simple, stark against the gray of the city’s nighttime glow. The lady from the next table who sells the little containers of fresh wheat grass stopped setting up two weeks ago. Soon there will be no tables at all. The city in winter. Reba imagines cozy apartments where folks sit by stoked fireplaces reading books, playing chess, supping on homemade stew. She’s seen the men in the park playing chess, other people reading on the benches. They all must go somewhere when it gets too cold.
    In the shadowy back of the van the fragrance of apples and pears mingles with the faintest scent of spilled gasoline. This late in the year, this late in the day, it’s not easy to see much inside the van, let alone read a magazine. And Billy bitches if she leaves the dome light on for too long. Besides, when she does, people can see her sitting inside. She prefers it like this, being invisible, watching the world go by.
    As far as Reba can tell, there are always some people moving around the city, like motes of dust in interstellar space. They must be insomniacs. And now, in the early gloom of night, they dash past her observation post, going where? Home to families? To jobs? To places she can imagine but can’t know.
    The grease-stained alley beside a restaurant across the way shines white in the light of the street lamps. Like tiny phantoms, rats scuttle and nip at the pyramids of bagged garbage. Faceless figures clip along with determination or hobble lethargically, as if postponing the next bad thing. Or maybe they want to go slow in case someone has to catch up to them and let them know they’d just won Lotto.
    Like sentries, dog walkers and surreptitious cigarette smokers make their rounds. Clusters of young men in open jackets walk briskly, chuckling and nodding at one another, probably more alive in this moment than they will ever be for the rest of their lives.
    When lovers come by and embrace, Reba memorizes every gesture. She wishes there were more lovers. Lovers are the best people to keep an eye on because they’re not waiting for something good to happen, they’re making it happen.
    About twenty feet from where she sits is a trash can. Since Billy split, Reba has counted seven people who have rummaged through that one can. And she has counted eight people who’ve stood sentinel while their dogs shit on the pavement, but only six who’ve actually picked up the shit. Two different guys have thrust their hips against the alley wall. Now a thin dark riverlet of urine traverses the sidewalk.
    Battered blue and white police vehicles ease past every ten minutes. A silent ambulance with revolving lights floats by. Three more rats. Chinese men on bicycles thread fearlessly through the erratic flow of traffic. And a guy who seems to be scratching himself limps off. Reba’s figured out from her visits that he was probably shooting up into his leg. High above her, blinking dots of red symbolize unseen jets and helicopters.
    It’s hard to think of home when I’m down here in the city. Hard to imagine the farm is there at all, leftovers cooling in the fridge, oil burner clicking on and off in the dusty basement, cars swishing along the two-lane. And yet, it’s