“Idiots!…” the locals all whispered after them. There were legends about what happened if you let the Hero “rub your button for luck.” This magic ritual was responsible for romantic conquests, curing disease, improving careers, and so much more. Of course, when I moved into my one-bedroom apartment on the Upper West Side six years ago as a young, cocky executive on the rise I considered all this just silly superstition. I dismissed it for a long time. Until I realized that I believed in him, just the same as all the others. My belief strengthened even more as my life, which had taken off like a rocket and was exciting and wonderful, suddenly turned to crap – life’s losers always believe in miracles more than the winners. Even if it is just because they have nothing else to believe in…
I knew the American Hero. I’d bought him a hotdog a few times, a pack of cigarettes, a bottle of bourbon… Just as many others had done. But not once in the six or so years that I lived in the neighborhood did I ever hear his magic phrase. So today I almost did not turn around when I heard his voice.
“Hey, Stevie-boy!” the old bum croaked at my back, “What’s your problem? You hard of hearing, or you ain’t got no buttons?”
I froze, then I slowly turned around and made my way over to the Hero (when and why he got that nickname no one really knew).
He was sitting down on a creaky old wooden crate and looking up at me. There wasn’t a glint of anything special or magical in his gaze, but my heart starting pounding just the same.
“Where’s the fire?” he grumbled unhappily, “Don’t worry, you won’t be late… Come on over here for a sec. Come closer, don’t make me get up.”
I was in a suit, so not having buttons wasn’t an issue. The American Hero indifferently rubbed one of my buttons with a strong, dirty finger and smacked his lips with satisfaction.
“You think it’s time?” I asked, smiling unevenly.
“As if you don’t know!” croaked the homeless Hero, lighting up an old cigarette and releasing a toxic cloud of smoke. “Oh, it’s time all right. I’m tired of watching you suffer…”
“And… how do you know that I am, well ‘suffering’, as you put it?”
I never complained about my life to the Hero, about that I’m sure.
‘I just see, is all,” shrugged the homeless man, “Life, it ain’t at all like people think, Stevie-boy. Remember that. Not at all. There’s so much more to it! Oh boy, and when it really hits rock bottom, that’s when the real miracles happen!”
“Listen, how come no one else can see what you do?
“How come pigs can’t see the sky? Because that’s how they live, with their faces in the dirt. And that is how people live their lives, noses to the grindstone, don’t notice what’s going on around them… OK, forget it, go, find your fortune!”
He smiled at me, with a mouth full of big strong teeth, like a horse.
On the way home I was planning to head off to Whistleroad Town straight away, but once I opened the door and saw the clock I understood that autumn had played one of its tricks on me- despite the warmth it was already ten thirty, and unlike that idiot Vince, I did not plan to go looking for my Hannah in the middle of the night.
But I did not feel like going to sleep no matter what I tried. I undressed, took a shower, turned on the TV for some background noise, but sleep just would not come. No chance- not today. They say that days like today come once in a lifetime, and certainly not to everyone. Although truly, I still did not fully comprehend what had actually happened to me, or what would happen to me, but it was not important- I literally felt pushed along by a powerful unseen current full of energy and joy. I did not feel anything even close to a doubt. Only the waiting was unbearable.
The idea to go find the American Hero came to me out of the blue, by itself, and a second later I felt like there was no way that I could not go. I had a bottle of whisky that was standing on the piano and been there for ages. The fridge was empty, so I decided that I would buy a couple of hot kebabs from the bakery on the corner- it was generally open all night. Quickly putting on some jeans and sneakers, I threw on a sweater over my t-shirt and grabbed the bottle and stuffed it in an old wrinkled paper bag and again ventured out into the cool autumn night.
The bakery was open. The young Lebanese guy behind the counter handed me a big, hot bag which smelled delicious and made me instantly ravenous. I took it and hurried off to the Park.
I did not have to search for the American Hero for long. To avoid any hassle from the cops he made his camp in an overgrown ravine close to the edge of the park. A roaring fire in an old oil drum cast a crimson light onto the thick but fading bushes. Standing close by was an old tent, so perfectly long and straight, that it reminded me of a picture from a textbook about the Civil War.
When I stepped out of the darkness into a patch of light the Hero was not startled or surprised. His lips faintly curled into a smile, a quizzical look in his eye.
“So, can’t sleep? It figures… Hang on, what’s that smell? It’s not a kebab is it? Excellent! Give it here!”
I gave him the bag of kebabs and the bottle, and dragged another wooden crate, identical to the one the American Hero sat on, over to the fire. He had already taken an enormous bite of the kebab and made a significant dent in the bottle as well.
“You gonna join me?” he asked.
“You bet. I’m starving.”
“Then here you go,” he said as he handed back the bag with the intoxicatingly fragrant Arabian sandwich.
“How ‘bout a swig?”
“No thanks, I’ve got to be up at the crack of dawn.”
“So what?” remarked the Hero, “One sip of whisky won’t kill you, believe me… Don’t worry, you’ll be up tomorrow morning and off like a shot!”
I obediently pressed the bottle to my lips. I immediately felt a glowing warmth inside me, although to that point I had not even felt cold. The kebab was delicious. The fire crackled comfortingly. The planets had aligned.
Suddenly, sitting there in the woods, I came to the realization that wolves (and in general all animals) must be so much freer and happier than people, who were forced to look out at the world through the tiny windows of their stuffy little rooms and hardly experienced the wonders of the nature around them.
We sat in silence for a minute or two. I was the first to break it.
“Thanks for giving me this day, Hero. Thank you for the miracle.”
“Miracle?!” the old bum tore himself away from the bottle, turning toward me with a surprised look on his face, “What the hell do mean ‘miracle’? Who do you think I am, Mother Teresa? Here have another drink, it’ll help clear your mind…”
He reached the bottle out toward me, and I took a large swallow. Then, not taking my eyes off the fire blazing in the barrel, a second…
“A miracle!” angrily muttered the American Hero, “The hell you say!…”
And so we continued to converse with our mouths stuffed with kebabs and bourbon, but somehow managed to understand each other perfectly.
“I rubbed your button for luck! Get it, for luck!? And luck and miracles are different things, Stevie-boy. Completely different, don’t mix ‘em up…”
I thought of Annie and felt a pang in my heart, as if I had been stabbed by a long, twisted thorn.
“I’m afraid that just ‘luck’ won’t be enough for me Hero, I need a miracle…”
“Don’t give a shit what you need!” he said, finishing the last bite of the kebab. He scooted his creaking old crate closer to the fire, and threw the bag from the food into the barrel. “Sorry, but I don’t work miracles. And, in general, I would advise you to stay well away from them. Now ‘luck,’ that’s