Cannibals in Love by Mike Roberts Page A

started joining in; picking up Mike’s war cry as a chant. This big and brawling noise that started somewhere in their guts. A raucous and spontaneous protest that was suddenly irresistible. People were booing the Queen!
    I pushed up to the front, next to Mike, where I could see her limo rocketing past. “Boooooooooo!” I screamed, feeling giddy and alive. To know for a fact that the Queen of England was hearing my voice was a strange thrill. I was smiling like crazy as I heckled with the crowd. Ours was a deep and guttural complaint. It was a thing beyond reason or reproof. I had chills running up my spine.
    The whole thing was over before it started, though. The motorcade flashed in the sun and the roar died out. The crowd began to laugh. Where had all of this come from anyway? People felt the urge to look away, to disavow themselves from the noise that they had made. These were not the kinds of people who felt a frenzy in their anger. These were not the good folks who identified with a mob.
    I watched as the motorcycle cops who had barred our passage fell into line behind the Queen, and the show was over. People scattered and cars were set in motion. The sidewalks cleared, and it was almost as though it had never happened. And, for all the good it might’ve done, it hadn’t, of course. But what did that have to do with us?

 
    THE AMBULANCE RIDE
    I must’ve fallen asleep at the wheel, as near as I could tell. I was kneeling on a sidewalk in New York, puking my guts out. My hip and elbow were bloodied, and there were two cops standing over me, waiting. I watched one of them prop my bike up against the wrought-iron fence of a park. It didn’t look that bad, really, and I tried to remember crashing it. But it was no use. I was fucked up good.
    It was dark; it was almost morning; it was a weekday. That was about as much as I could figure out straight off. If it really was a weekday, I had a temp job that I was definitely going to be late for this morning. It hardly mattered. Everyone has nine lives at a temp agency.
    I was done vomiting and I decided standing up would make a better presentation for myself. The two cops were smirking, and I tried to play it the same, casual-like. I gave a terse thank-you that may have included some sort of bow, and then I took my bicycle back off the fence.
    â€œWell, anyway,” I said. “Thanks for everything.”
    â€œWhoa, whoa, whoa. Hang on a sec, Mikey,” the big cop said. This familiarity was slightly unsettling until I realized that the other big cop had my driver’s license. Again I was struck by the sheer fact of how drunk I was. What day was this now? All these bad nights in New York City, blurring together meaninglessly.
    The big cop put his hand on my shoulder in an avuncular way. Apparently he was in charge here. I let go of the bike, missing the fence by a clear three feet. With a series of apologetic head nods we decided to leave it where it was on the ground. And then, with a shallow breath and a deep nod, I was smashed in the head by the powerful feeling of sleep. All these vague disorientations here: the cops in their uniforms; the red, painless bleeding. None of this seemed particularly serious to me, especially after the big cop handed back my license.
    â€œWhere do you live?” one of the cops was asking. “Where do you live?” They both kept asking this.
    â€œI live here. This is my neighborhood. Right around the corner,” I said, pointing generally. “Thanks for everything.”
    â€œWhoa, whoa, whoa,” the big cop said again. He tightened his grip on my shoulder, positioning himself between me and the bicycle. “No, no, listen. Where do you live?”
    â€œRight here, man. I’m practically home.”
    â€œWhat street?”
    â€œGates. Franklin and Gates.”
    Their foreheads dented with this. “Where’s that? Brooklyn? ”
    â€œYeah,” I said, with a