The Thomas Berryman Number

I parked the Audi outside the front gates. Across from an apple-red gas station. It was cool. A day for carcoats. It was a Saturday in early December.

Walking toward the somber gray buildings, I thought about this book as a whole.

It seemed odd to me that there is no discernible pattern to personality, but that readers come to expect cause and effect. I myself expected cause and effect as a reader.

Well, I was short on causes—so maybe I had achieved some sort of realism. Or maybe I just hadn’t dug deep enough. I wasn’t really sure.

I thought about my daughter, Cat, then. At that time, whenever I thought about her and she wasn’t around, I came to a remark she’d made a few weeks earlier. She’d said, “Ochs, when I go to the supermarket now, people shooting guns always comes into my mind.” On Saturdays (Saturday is Nan’s shopping day), Cat had been sleeping late or starting to vacuum or dust if her mother even mentioned going to shop.

A tall, balding guard at the front gate asked me who I was there to see. He didn’t ask me to “state my business,” or anything like that. He was sipping coffee, very cordial and friendly.

“My name is Jones,” I said. “I’m here to see Joseph Cubbah. My newspaper has already contacted your warden.”

(Interview between Ochs Jones and Joseph Cubbah. Taped at the federal penitentiary at Louisville.)

Jones.

Do you mind if I ask questions?

Cubbah

No. No, that’s a good way. Yeah

J

: I uh… What were your feelings about Bert Poole? For starters.

C

: Who’s Bert Poole?

J:

I’m sorry… The young hippie boy in Nashville. The boy you

C

: None. Nothing.

J:

If you could think of anything?

C

: … He was an asshole. (Laughs) Really.

(I felt that Cubbah thought I was trying to draw some kind of half-assed parallel here. I abandoned the topic.)

J

: … All right… What about Berryman? Tell me what happened?

C

: In actual fact, he got fucked over. I don’t know, you know

J

: Not exactly… Any specifics you

C

: He was double-crossed. See, he was in the crowd there… Hey, why don’t you make sure your tape’s working

J

: It is. I can see the thing turning… I’ll play it… (Click)

C

: That’s me, huh?

J

: I’m always surprised at the way my voice sounds… It’s on

C

: Yeah, well, Berryman was in the parking lot. I was watching him when the other kid

J

: You’re talking about Bert Poole?

C

: Bert Poole, he opened up right in front of me. Maybe I was a row of people away from him. When it happened, you know, I figured he was working with Berryman. I don’t know

what I thought.

He never hit Jimmie Horn, though. Didn’t even know how to hold a gun.

J

: What happened to Horn? Do you know?

C

: Berryman hit him. Shot right through this windbreaker. He had a windbreaker over his arm. Two shots, I figure. Silencer.

Pfft. Pfft.

.44. Which I don’t understand to this day. Neat trick.

J

: You shot Poole though?

C

: That was just an accident. Reflexes. See, I already had my hand on the gun. But when I turned around for Berryman, he’s already gone. Back in the crowd. I couldn’t believe it. Like ten seconds of the greatest fucking confusion in my life. Everybody’s screaming. There’s movie cameras all over Horn. He’s shivering. Keeps kicking the back of his heel into the asphalt. Like these little kicks. This is fifteen, twenty seconds. I swear to Christ.

J

: I’ve seen films, Joe

C

: Yeah.

J

: What did you do then? I’ll try not to interrupt.

C

: Fuck it, that’s OK. After that? Well, I got my bearings first of all. Then, I started to make my way back through the mob. Saw Berryman going into the big market there with this girl. Long-hair girl. Tall one. I walked in behind them, both of them, and he’s filling up a cart. Actually filling up a fucking grocery cart with fucking steaks and Rice Krispies. This girl’s cool. She looks cool, I mean. But I can tell she’s nervous. You can tell. She does these little things like brush her hair back too much. Berryman can tell, too. At least something’s bothering him. He keeps telling her to shut up. He’s so mad he looks like he’s blushing or something. Anyway, they get together all these groceries—two or three bags at least—and then they go outside like it’s home to baby.

J

: They left?

C

: Hell no. Because outside is this huge traffic jam. They have to sit tight in the car. I sit tight myself. Take a dump I’ve been holding in for hours. Try to figure out what I should do… Please… (Sound of lighter snap)… (Splice in tape)… Around four-thirty. Thereabouts. It gets dark and starts to rain like a bitch. The air gets cleaned. I get cooled off. It’s terrific. I hop into the drugstore. Buy a big black umbrella. Stand around outside like Potsy the Cop.

J

: Berryman’s still stuck?

C

: Of course. He’s finally out in an aisle though. Right up alongside this cyclone fence. Like leaving the drive-in. I go up to the car and bang on the window.

J

: Does he know you?

C