February 28, 2015


DB Cox is a blues musician/writer from South Carolina. His poems and short stories have been published extensively in the small press, in the US, and abroad.  His first collection of short stories called “Unaccustomed Mercy,” published by Studio Books, is available at the Amazon Kindle Store.

His poetry is also featured in this issue of IVJ.

Obtaining Mercy

Arthur Nagel is an ugly, little man. He stands barely four feet tall, and his head

is much too big for his body. The muscles on the left side of his face are totally

paralyzed causing his face to droop. Because of his looks, most people think Arthur is

mentally deficient. He is not.

Arthur lives on East Fifth Street in Los Angeles—sometimes called “the nickel”

or “Skid Row.” He resides in the “City Of Angels Hotel”, Room 821. If you live in

this shithole, you’re on the edge of the world. You can get a room for a night or a

lifetime. Most of Arthur’s monthly disability check goes to paying for this room, which

includes a bed, two chairs, a bedside table with a small lamp, a dresser, a microwave

oven, and a small refrigerator. No television. No radio. The only window in the room

looks down eight floors onto a trash-filled alley. Unlike most living quarters, there

are no collected objects from an earlier life—no sense of gathered time.

Only two outsiders ever come into this room. One is an old drunk, named Eddie

Sellers, who lives on the seventh floor. Arthur pays Eddie a few bucks to run

errands: trips to the grocery store, the liquor store, and sometimes the Laundromat.

The other is Brother Thomas from the local mission who comes by once a month

bringing his message for the sick and infirm. He has never made the lame walk

or the blind see, but he does carry a big King James Bible full of platitudes and

beatitudes, which are recited with evangelistic enthusiasm, so as to give Arthur


The only time Arthur leaves #821 is to walk down the hall to the bathroom.


Arthur Nagel would be considered just another peculiar loner if not for his amazing

talent. He is a master musician—an expert guitarist in the Mississippi Delta style.

Arthur spends most of his days sitting on the edge of his bed drinking Seagram’s 7

from a Dixie cup and playing his ancient acoustic guitar. Since Arthur has trouble

forming some words, he has learned to use his voice like a musical instrument to

improvise solos over finger picked guitar chords. Using only the right side of his

mouth, he creates unique sounds—high wailing tones, almost animal-like in their

intensity. He runs through notes and phrases that are inside and outside the blues,

and some that are missing from the twelve-tone Western music scale altogether.

Arthur’s only reprieve from the sameness and solitude of his existence is an

occasional visit from his one and only fan. Actually, it’s not a visit, because the boy

never comes into the room. He just sits in the hallway across from Arthur’s closed

door and listens to him play. When the boy hears something he likes, he claps. This

has been going on for months. The two music lovers have never met.


Brother Thomas is a handsome middle-aged man with a long nose and a smooth

face. His brown hair is combed straight back on his head. Today, he’s dressed in a

white shirt, a skinny black tie, gray slacks, and black shoes. At this moment, the

whole of Arthur’s tiny room is filled by his impressive voice.

“Heavenly Father, have mercy on this simple man. And Lord, may the words you

spoke at the ‘Sermon on the Mount’ bring him comfort in these difficult times.

Blessed are the poor in spirit, for theirs is the kingdom of heaven.

Blessed are the meek, for they shall inherit the earth.”

With each line, the voice of Brother Thomas swells.

“Blessed are the merciful, for they shall obtain mercy.

And blessed are the pure in heart, for they shall see God.

In thy holy name Lord, Amen.”

“All over,” thinks Arthur. The dramatic prayer is always the grand finale.

Brother Thomas closes his bible and gets up from the chair. For almost an hour, he

has been sitting knee to knee with Arthur, who’s perched on the edge of the bed.

He shakes Arthur’s hand, and turns toward the door. Then he stops and looks back

over his shoulder.

“Arthur, I talked to a friend of yours yesterday at the mission.”

Arthur looks up—surprised. For as long as he can remember, he’s never heard the

word “friend” associated with his name.

“His name is Adam. He told me that he comes over here and listens to you play

guitar—claims you’re something special.”

Arthur shakes his head in denial.

“I don’t know him.” mutters Arthur. “The boy just sits out in the hall.”

“I don’t know much about him myself,” says Brother Thomas. “I do know the boy

is really sick—fourteen years old and already a junkie. He’s been hustling the street

since he was eleven. Now he has full-blown AIDS. He’s going down fast and has

absolutely no interest in making a fight of it. The crowd he used to run with won’t

come near him now. Even the folks at the mission don’t like him hanging around.”

Brother Thomas pauses and runs his right hand through his hair as if he’s pondering


Then he waves to Arthur and says, “Got to finish my rounds. I’ll drop in next month

to see how you’re doing.”

And he’s gone.


Just after nightfall the rain starts. As Arthur gets up to close the window, someone

knocks at the door. Arthur keeps quiet hoping that whoever it is will go away. But

the knock comes again—this time a little louder. So he moves closer to the door and

calls out, “Who’s there?”

From the other side of the door there’s a fit of violent coughing. Then a voice.

“Mr. Nagel, my name is Adam. Could I please speak with you a minute?”

Arthur immediately recognizes the name but is still hesitant to open the door.

“It’s late,” says Arthur.

The boy notices the strange blurring of words—muffled, as if the sound is coming

from inside a can.

“Can you help me?” asks the boy.

Arthur opens the door slightly, keeping the chain latched.

“How can I help?”

For a few seconds there is no reply. Then quietly, with an obvious effort, the boy

says, “I need a place to stay.”

Arthur unlatches the chain and opens the door.

The kid stands in the doorway with his head slightly bowed. Pale and skinny with

jet-black hair and dark eyes that shine like drops of oil. He is wet from the rain and

clearly exhausted.

“Would you like to come in and sit down?”

Adam looks up, and for the first time, gets a look at Arthur Nagel. He studies the

man’s warped features and realizes why he has never seen him outside of his room.

If there had been any more space available for hurt inside his body, the sight of this

heartbreaking little man would have filled it.

“Mr. Nagel I hate to bother you, but I have nowhere else to go.”

To keep from falling, the boy leans against the doorjamb.

“Would you like something to drink? Some water or something?” asks Arthur.

Before the boy can answer, he drops facedown just inside the door.


Shadowed in the half-light of a table lamp, Arthur sits on the bed watching the boy.

He reaches out with his left hand, gently pats the boy on the shoulder and whispers,

“I want to help you.”

Adam groans in his sleep and starts to cough again—blood on the pillow. Then he

begins to mumble something—the same thing over and over. But he’s shaking so

bad it’s difficult to make out the words. Arthur leans closer, putting an ear close to

the boy’s lips. What is he saying? Sounds like: “Please help me go. Please help me

go.” Yes that’s it. Arthur is certain.


Time has stopped. Adam knows he is sinking—mind moving in dark circles—rolling

in the blackness, sick and moving further away. It’s getting harder to breathe, and it

seems that his heart might stop at any time. All the while he is conscious of Arthur

near him. He feels that everything is about to be decided—this madness, pain, and

loneliness he has carried for too long is about to be eliminated.

He is ready to exit this place—tired of being a prisoner in his own ravaged body. This

has been a long time coming. Now it is here. He feels calm, relieved. This is the man

who will do it. Adam is sure of it.


Arthur stands over the boy for a long while, trying to make up his mind.

If God doesn’t speak now, then God never speaks...

Nothing. Silence.

“Blessed are the merciful,” says Arthur.

Adam opens his eyes as the pillow is lowered over his face. Arthur pushes down as

hard as he can. There is a muffled sound as if the boy is trying to say something. But

he does not fight. Arthur closes his eyes and holds the pillow in place until he is sure

the boy is gone. Then he falls back across the bottom of the bed, and listens to the

rain tap against the window.

He stares up at the ceiling and shakes his head—trying to clear his brain. He

considers the word “friend.” He thinks about the wall he has been busy constructing

around himself for so many years—an ugly little freak determined to keep out all

the hurt. An exclusive enclosure that became smaller and smaller until there was no

room inside for anyone except Arthur Nagel.

Arthur pulls himself up to a sitting position on the side of the bed, reaches over and

turns off the lamp. He begins to cry quietly, tears sliding down his misshapen face

and splattering onto the linoleum floor.

Finally he stands up, walks over to the window and looks down at the rain-slicked

alleyway. He pushes the window all the way to the top and lets the rain blow into the

room. With the palms of his hands, he knocks the wire screen out of the frame and

watches it sail into the alley below. For a few seconds he stares down at the hazy

reflection of light on wet cobblestones, then he turns and walks to the closet.

Arthur takes out his guitar, walks back across the room, and props it next to the

window. He pulls a chair over, climbs up, and lowers himself onto the windowsill—

legs dangling over the edge of the building.

He reaches back and picks up his baby—the only comfort he’s ever really known.

Closing his eyes, he leans lovingly over the smooth, wooden curves.

And from the eighth floor of a hotel somewhere on “Skid Row”, a bluesman, balanced

on a ledge, coaxes stiletto notes from an old guitar. He sings in mournful wails that

cut through the haze like lightning—igniting the murky space with a supernatural fire

that burns for a while—then goes cold.


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