Christmas Eve, 1955, Benny Profane, wearing black levis, suede2 jacket, sneakers and big cowboy hat, happened to pass through Norfolk, Virginia. Given to sentimental5 impulses, he thought he'd look in on the Sailor's Grave, his old tin can's tavern6 on East Main Street. He got there by way of the Arcade7, at the East Main end of which sat an old street singer with a guitar and an empty Sterno can for donations. Out in the street a chief yeoman was trying to urinate in the gas tank of a '54 Packard Patrician8 and five or six seamen9 apprentice10 were standing11 around giving encouragement. The old man was singing, in a fine, firm baritone:
Every night is Christmas Eve on old East Main,
Sailors and their sweethearts all agree.
Neon signs of red and green
Shine upon the friendly scene,
Welcoming you in from off the sea.
Santa's bag is filled with all your dreams come true:
Nickel beers that sparkle like champagne14,
Barmaids who all love to screw,
All of them reminding you
It's Christmas Eve on old East Main.
"Yay chief," yelled a seaman15 deuce. Profane rounded the corner. With its usual lack of warning, East Main was on him.
Since his discharge from the Navy Profane had been road-laboring and when there wasn't work just traveling, up and down the east coast like a yo-yo; and this had been going on for maybe a year and a half. After that long of more named pavements than he'd care to count, Profane had grown a little leery of streets, especially streets like this. They had in fact all fused into a single abstracted Street, which come the full moon he would have nightmares about: East Main, a ghetto17 for Drunken Sailors nobody knew what to Do With, sprang on your nerves with all the abruptness18 of a normal night's dream turning to nightmare. Dog into wolf, light into twilight19, emptiness into waiting presence, here were your underage Marine20 barfing in the street, barmaid with a ship's propeller21 tattooed22 on each buttock, one potential berserk studying the best technique for jumping through a plate glass window (when to scream Geronimo? before or after the glass breaks?), a drunken deck ape crying back in the alley24 because last time the SP's caught him like this they put him in a strait jacket. Underfoot, now and again, came vibration25 in the sidewalk from an SP streetlights away, beating out a Hey Rube with his night stick; overhead, turning everybody's face green and ugly, shone mercury-vapor lamps, receding26 in an asymmetric27 V to the east where it's dark and there are no more bars.
Arriving at the Sailor's Grave, Profane found a small fight in progress between sailors and jarheads. He stood in the doorway29 a moment watching; then realizing he had one foot in the Grave anyway, dived out of the way of the fight and lay more or less doggo near the brass30 rail.
"Why can't man live in peace with his fellow man," wondered a voice behind Profane's left ear. It was Beatrice the barmaid, sweetheart of DesDiv 22, not to mention Profane's old ship, the destroyer U.S.S. Scaffold. "Benny," she cried. They became tender, meeting again after so long. Profane began to draw in the sawdust hearts, arrows through them, sea gulls31 carrying a banner in their beaks34 which read Dear Beatrice.
The Scaffold-boat's crew were absent, this tin can having got under way for the Mediterranean35 two evenings ago amid a storm of bitching from the crew which was heard out in the cloudy Roads (so the yarn36 went) like voices off a ghost ship; heard as far away as Little Creek37. Accordingly, there were a few more barmaids than usual tonight, working tables all up and down East Main. For it's said (and not without reason) that no sooner does a ship like the Scaffold single up all lines than certain Navy wives are out of their civvies and into barmaid uniform, flexing38 their beer-carrying arms and practicing a hooker's sweet smile; even as the N.O.B. band is playing Auld39 Lang Syne40 and the destroyers are blowing stacks in black flakes41 all over the cuckolds-to-be standing manly42 at attention, taking leave with rue12 and a tiny grin.
Beatrice brought beer. There was a piercing yelp44 from one of the back tables, she flinched45, beer slopped over the edge of the glass.
"God," she said, "it's Ploy46 again." Ploy was now an engineman on the mine sweeper Impulsive47 and a scandal the length of East Main. He stood five feet nothing in sea boots and was always picking fights with the biggest people on the ship, knowing they would never take him seriously. Ten months ago (just before he'd transferred off the Scaffold) the Navy had decided48 to remove all of Ploy's teeth. Incensed49, Ploy managed to punch his way through a chief corpsman and two dental officers before it was decided he was in earnest about keeping his teeth. "But think," the officers shouted, trying not to laugh, fending50 off his tiny fists: "root canal work, gum abscesses. . ." "No," screamed Ploy. They finally had to hit him in the bicep with a Pentothal injection. On waking up, Ploy saw apocalypse, screamed lengthy obscenities. For two months he roamed ghastly around the Scaffold, leaping without warning to swing from the overhead like an orangutan, trying to kick officers in the teeth.
He would stand on the fantail and harangue52 whoever would listen, flannelmouthed through aching gums. When his mouth had healed he was presented with a gleaming, regulation set of upper and lower plates. "Oh God," he bawled53, and tried to jump over the side. But was restrained by a gargantuan54 Negro named Dahoud. "Hey there, little fellow," said Dahoud, picking Ploy up by the head and scrutinizing55 this convulsion of dungarees and despair whose feet thrashed a yard above the deck. "What do you want to go and do that for?"
"Man, I want to die, is all," cried Ploy.
"Don't you know," said Dahoud, "that life is the most precious possession you have?"
"Ho, ho," said Ploy through his tears. "Why?"
"Because," said Dahoud, "without it, you'd be dead."
"Oh," said Ploy. He thought about this for a week. He calmed down, started to go on liberty again. His transfer to the Impulsive became reality. Soon, after Lights Out, the other snipes began to hear strange grating sounds from the direction of Ploy's rack. This went on for a couple-three weeks until one morning around two somebody turned on the lights in the compartment56 and there was Ploy, sitting crosslegged on his rack, sharpening his teeth with a small bastard57 file. Next payday night, Ploy sat at a table in the Sailor's Grave with a bunch of other snipes, quieter than usual. Around eleven, Beatrice swayed by, carrying a tray full of beers. Gleeful, Ploy stuck his head out, opened his jaws58 wide, and sank his newly-filed dentures into the barmaid's right buttock. Beatrice screamed, glasses flew parabolic and glittering, spraying the Sailor's Grave with watery59 beer.
It became Ploy's favorite amusement. The word spread through the division, the squadron, perhaps all DesLant. People not of the Impulsive or Scaffold came to watch. This started many fights like the one now in progress.
"Who did he get," Profane said. "I wasn't looking."
"Beatrice," said Beatrice. Beatrice being another barmaid. Mrs. Buffo, owner of the Sailor's Grave, whose first name was also Beatrice, had a theory that just as small children call all females mother, so sailors, in their way equally as helpless, should call all barmaids Beatrice. Further to implement this maternal60 policy, she had had custom beer taps installed, made of foam61 rubber, in the shape of large breasts. From eight to nine on payday nights there occurred something Mrs. Buffo called Suck Hour. She began it officially by emerging from the back room clad in a dragon-embroidered kimono given her by an admirer in the Seventh Fleet, raising a gold boatswain's pipe to her lips and blowing Chow Down. At this signal, everyone would dive for and if they were lucky enough to reach one be given suck by a beer tap. There were seven of these taps, and an average of 250 sailors usually present for the merrymaking.
Ploy's head now appeared around a corner of the bar. He snapped his teeth at Profane. "This here," Ploy said, "is my friend Dewey Gland62, who just came aboard." He indicated a long, sad-looking rebel with a huge beak33 who had followed Ploy over, dragging a guitar in the sawdust.
"Howdy," said Dewey Gland. "I would like to sing you a little song."
"To celebrate your becoming a PFC," said Ploy. "Dewey sings it to everybody."
"That was last year," said Profane.
But Dewey Gland propped63 one foot on the brass rail and the guitar on his knee and began to strum. After eight bars of this he sang, in waltz time:
Pore Forlorn Civilian64,
We're goin to miss you so.
In the goat hole and the wardroom they're cryin,
Even the mizzable X.O.
You're makin a mistake,
Though yore ass4 they should break,
Yore report chits number a million.
Ship me over for twenty years,
I'll never be a Pore Forlorn Civilian.
"It's pretty," said Profane into his beer glass.
"There's more," said Dewey Gland.
"Oh," said Profane.
A miasma66 of evil suddenly enveloped67 Profane from behind; an arm fell like a sack of spuds across his shoulder and into his peripheral68 vision crept a beer glass surrounded by a large muff, fashioned ineptly69 from diseased baboon70 fur.
"Benny. How is the pimping business, hyeugh, hyeugh."
The laugh could only have come from Profane's onetime shipmate, Pig Bodine. Profane looked round. It had. Hyeugh, hyeugh approximates a laugh formed by putting the tonguetip under the top central incisors and squeezing guttural sounds out of the throat. It was, as Pig intended, horribly obscene.
"Old Pig. Aren't you missing movement?"
"I am AWOL. Pappy Hod the boatswain mate drove me over the hill." The best way to avoid SP's is to stay sober and with your own. Hence the Sailor's Grave.
"How is Pappy."
Pig told him how Pappy Hod and the barmaid he'd married had split up. She'd left and come to work at the Sailor's Grave.
That young wife, Paola. She'd said sixteen, but no way of telling because she'd been born just before the war and the building with her records destroyed, like most other buildings on the island of Malta.
Profane had been there when they met: the Metro71 Bar, on Strait Street. The Gut51. Valletta, Malta.
"Chicago," from Pappy Hod in his gangster72 voice. "You heard of Chicago," meanwhile reaching sinister73 inside his jumper, a standard act for Pappy Hod all around the Med's littoral74. He would pull out a handkerchief and not a heater or gat after all, blow his nose and laugh at whatever girl it happened to be sitting across the table. American movies had given them stereotypes75 all, all but Paola Maijstral, who continued to regard him then with nostrils76 unflared, eyebrows77 at dead center.
Pappy ended up borrowing 500 for 700 from Mac the cook's slush fund to bring Paola to the States.
Maybe it had only been a way for her to get to America - every Mediterranean barmaid's daftness - where there was enough food, warm clothes, heat all the time, buildings all in one piece. Pappy was to lie about her age to get her into the country. She could be any age she wanted. And you suspected any nationality, for Paola knew scraps78 it seemed of all tongues.
Pappy Hod had described her for the deck apes' amusement down in the boatswain's locker79 of the U.S.S. Scaffold. Speaking the while however with a peculiar80 tenderness, as of slowly coming aware, maybe even as the yarn unlaid, that sex might be more of a mystery than he'd foreseen and he would not after all know the score because that kind of score. wasn't written down in numbers. Which after forty-five years was nothing for any riggish Pappy Hod to be finding out.
"Good stuff," said Pig aside. Profane looked toward the back of the Sailor's Grave and saw her approaching now through the night's accumulated smoke. She looked like an East Main barmaid. What was it about the prairie hare in the snow, the tiger in tall grass and sunlight?
She smiled at Profane: sad, with an effort.
"You come back to re-enlist?"
"Just passing," Profane said.
"You come with me to the west coast," Pig said. "Ain't an SP car made that can take my Harley."
"Look, look," cried little Ploy, hopping81 up and down on one foot. "Not now, you guys. Stand by." He pointed82. Mrs. Buffo had materialized on the bar, in her kimono. A hush83 fell over the place. There was a momentary84 truce85 between the jarheads and sailors blocking the doorway.
"Boys," Mrs. Buffo announced, "it's Christmas Eve." She produced the boatswain's pipe and began to play. The first notes quavered out fervent86 and flutelike over widened eyes and gaping87 mouths. Everyone in the Sailor's Grave listened awestruck, realizing gradually that she was playing It Came Upon a Midnight Clear, within the limited range of the boatswain's pipe. From way in the back, a young reserve who had once done night club acts around Philly began to sing softly along. Ploy's eyes shone. "It is the voice of an angel," he said.
They had reached the part that goes "Peace on the earth, good will to men, From Heav'n's all-gracious king," when Pig, a militant88 atheist89, decided he could stand it no longer. "That," he announced in, a loud voice, "sounds like Chow Down." Mrs. Buffo and the reserve fell silent. A second passed before anybody got the message.
"Suck Hour!" screamed Ploy.
Which kind of broke the spell. The quick-thinking inmates90 of the Impulsive somehow coalesced91 in the sudden milling around of jolly jack3 tars92, hoisted Ploy bodily and rushed with the little fellow toward the nearest nipple, in the van of the attack.
Mrs. Buffo, poised93 on her rampart like the trumpeter of Cracow, took the full impact of the onslaught, toppling over backwards95 into an ice-tub as the first wave came hurtling over the bar. Ploy, hands outstretched, was propelled over the top. He caught on to one of the tap handles and simultaneously96 his shipmates let go; his momentum97 carried him and the handle in a downward arc: beer began to gush98 from the foam rubber breast in a white cascade99, washing over Ploy, Mrs. Buffo and two dozen sailors who had come around behind the bar in a flanking action and who were now battering100 one another into insensibility. The group who had carried Ploy over spread out and tried to corner more beer taps. Ploy's leading petty officer was on hands and knees holding Ploy's feet, ready to pull them out from under him, and take his striker's place when Ploy had had enough. The Impulsive detachment in their charge had formed a flying wedge. In their wake and through the breach101 clambered at least sixty more slavering bluejackets, kicking, clawing, side-arming, bellowing103 uproariously; some swinging beer bottles to clear a path.
Profane sat at the end of the bar, watching hand-tooled sea boots, bell-bottoms, rolled up levi cuffs104; every now and again a drooling face at the end of a fallen body; broken beer bottles, tiny sawdust storms.
Soon he looked over; Paola was there, arms around his leg, cheek pressed against the black denim105.
"It's awful," she said.
"Oh," said Profane. He patted her head.
"Peace," she sighed. "Isn't that what we all want, Benny? Just a little peace. Nobody jumping out and biting you on the ass."
"Hush," said Profane, "look: someone has just walloped Dewey Gland in the stomach with his own guitar."
Paola murmured against his leg. They sat quiet, without raising their eyes to watch the carnage going on above them. Mrs. Buffo had undertaken a crying jag. Inhuman106 blubberings beat against and rose from behind the old imitation mahogany of the bar.
Pig had moved aside two dozen beer glasses and seated himself on a ledge behind the bar. In times of crisis he preferred to sit in as voyeur107. He gazed eagerly as his shipmates grappled shoatlike after the seven geysers below him. Beer had soaked down most of the sawdust behind the bar: skirmishes and amateur footwork were now scribbling108 it into alien hieroglyphics109.
Outside came sirens, whistles, running feet. "Oh, oh," said Pig. He hopped clown from the shelf, made his way around the end of the bar to Profane and Paola. "Hey, ace," he said, cool and slitting110 his eyes as if the wind blew into them. "The sheriff is coming."
"Back way," said Profane.
"Bring the broad," said Pig.
The three of them ran broken-field through a roomful of teeming111 bodies. On the way they picked up Dewey Gland. By the time the Shore Patrol had crashed into the Sailor's Grave, night sticks flailing112, the four found themselves running down an alley parallel to East Main. "Where we going," Profane said. "The way we're heading," said Pig. "Move your ass."
II
Where they ended up finally was an apartment in Newport News, inhabited by four WAVE lieutenants113 and a switchman at the coal piers114 (friend of Pig's) named Morris Teflon, who was a sort of house father. The week between Christmas and New Year's Day was spent drunk enough to know that's what they were. Nobody in the house seemed to object hen they all moved in.
An unfortunate habit of Teflon's drew Profane and Paola together, though neither wanted that. Teflon had a camera: Leica, procured115 half-legally overseas by a Navy friend. On weekends when business was good and guinea red wine lashing116 around like the wave from a heavy merchantman, Teflon would sling117 the camera round his neck and go a-roving from bed to bed, taking pictures. These he sold to avid118 sailors at the lower end of East Main.
It happened that Paola Hod, nee Maijstral, cast loose at her own whim119 early from the security of Pappy Hod's bed and late from the half-home of the Sailor's Grave, was now in a state of shock which endowed Profane with all manner of healing and sympathetic talents he didn't really possess.
"You're all I have," she warned him. "Be good to me." They would sit around a table in Teflon's kitchen: Pig Bodine and Dewey Gland facing them one each like partners at bridge, a vodka bottle in the middle. Nobody would talk except to argue about what they would mix the vodka with next when what they had ran out. That week they tried milk, canned vegetable soup, finally the juice from a dried-up piece of watermelon which was all Teflon had left in the refrigerator. Try to squeeze a watermelon into a small tumbler sometime when your reflexes are not so good. It is next to impossible. Picking the seeds out of the vodka proved also to be a problem, and resulted in a growing, mutual120 ill-will.
Part of the trouble was that Pig and Dewey both had eyes for Paola. Every night they would approach Profane as a committee and ask for seconds.
"She's trying to recover from men," Profane tried to say. Pig would either reject this or take it as an insult to Pappy Hod his old superior.
Truth of it was Profane wasn't getting any. Though it became hard to tell what Paola wanted.
"What do you mean," Profane said. "Be good to you."
"What Pappy Hod wasn't," she said. He soon gave up trying to decode121 her several hankerings. She would on occasion come up with all sorts of weird tales of infidelity, punchings-in-the-mouth, drunken abuse. Having clamped down, chipped, wire-brushed, painted and chipped again under Pappy Hod for four years Profane would believe about half. Half because a woman is only half of something there are usually two sides to.
She taught them all a song. Learned from a para on French leave from the fighting in Algeria:
Demain le noir matin,
Je fermerai la porte
Au nez des annees mortes;
J'irai par13 les chemins.
Je mendierai ma vie
Sur la terre et sur l'onde,
Du vieux au nouveau monde . . .
He had been short and built like the island of Malta itself: an inscrutable heart. She'd had only one night with him. Then he was off to the Piraeus.
Tomorrow, the black morning, I close the door in the face of the dead years. I will go on the road, bum122 my way over and sea, from the old to the new world . . . .
She taught Dewey Gland the chord changes and so they all round the table of Teflon's wintry kitchen, while four gas flames on the stove ate up their oxygen; and sang, and sang. When Profane watched her eyes he thought she dreamed of the para - probably a man-of-no-politics as brave as anyone ever is in combat: but tired, was all, tired of relocating native villages and devising barbarities in the morning as brutal123 as'd come from the F.L.N. the night before. She wore a Miraculous124 Medal round her neck (given to her, maybe, by some random125 sailor she reminded of a good Catholic girl back in the States where sex is for free - or for marriage?). What sort of Catholic was she? Profane, who was only half Catholic (mother Jewish), whose morality was fragmentary (being derived126 from experience and not much of it), wondered what quaint127 Jesuit arguments had led her to come away with him, refuse to share a bed but still ask him to "be good."
The night before New Year's Eve they wandered away from the kitchen and out to a kosher delicatessen a few blocks away. On returning to Teflon's they found Pig and Dewey gone: "Gone out to get drunk," said the note. The place was lit up all Xmasy, a radio turned to WAVY128 and Pat Boone in one bedroom, sounds of objects being thrown in another. Somehow the young couple had wandered into a darkened room with this
"No," she said.
"Meaning yes."
Groan129, went the bed. Before either of them knew it:
Click, went Teflon's Leica.
Profane did what was expected of him: came roaring off the bed, arm terminating in a fist. Teflon dodged130 it easily. "Now, now," he chuckled131.
Outraged132 privacy was not so important; but the interruption had come just before the Big Moment.
"You don't mind," Teflon was telling him. Paola was hurrying into clothes.
"Out in the snow," Profane said, "is where that camera, Teflon, is sending us:"
"Here:" opened the camera, handed Profane the film, "you're going to be a horse's ass about it."
Profane took the film but couldn't back down. So he dressed and topped off with the cowboy hat. Paola had put on a Navy greatcoat, too big for her.
"Out," Profane cried, "in the snow." Which in fact there was. They caught a ferry over to Norfolk and sat topside drinking black coffee out of paper cups and watching snow-shrouds flap silent against the big windows. There was nothing else to look at but a bum on a bench facing them, and each other. The engine thumped133 and labored134 down below, they could feel it through their buttocks, but neither could think of anything to say.
"Did you want to stay," he asked.
"No, no," she shivered, a discreet135 foot of worn bench between them. He had no impulse to bring her closer. "Whatever you decide."
Madonna, he thought, I have a dependent now.
"What are you shivering for. It's warm enough in here."
She shook her head no (whatever that meant), staring at the toes of her galoshes. After a while Profane got up and went out on deck.
Snow falling lazy on the water made 11 P.M. look like a twilight or an eclipse. Overhead every few seconds a horn sounded off to warn away anything on collision course. But yet as if there were nothing in this roads after all but ships, untenanted, inanimate, making noises at each other which meant nothing more than the turbulence137 of the screws or the snow-hiss on the water. And Profane all alone in it.
Some of us are afraid of dying; others of human loneliness. Profane was afraid of land or seascapes like this, where nothing else lived but himself. It seemed he was always walking into one: turn a corner in the street, open a door to a weather-deck and there he'd be, in alien country.
But the door behind him opened again. Soon he felt Paola's gloveless hands slipped under his arms, her cheek against his back. His mental eye withdrew, watching their still-life as a stranger might. But she didn't help the scene be any less alien. They kept like that till the other side, the ferry entered the slip, and chains clanked, car ignitions whined138, motors started.
They rode the bus into town, wordless; alit near the Monticello Hotel and set out for East Main to find Pig and Dewey. The Sailor's Grave was dark, the first time Profane could remember. The cops must have closed it up.
They found Pig next door in Chester's Hillbilly Haven139. Dewey was sitting in with the band. "Party, party," cried Pig.
Some dozen ex-Scaffold sailors wanted a reunion. Pig, appointing himself social chairman, decided on the Susanna Squaducci, an Italian luxury liner now in the last stages of construction in the Newport News yards.
"Back to Newport News?" (Deciding not to tell Pig about the disagreement with Teflon.) So: yo-yoing again.
"This has got to cease," he said but nobody was listening. Pig was off dancing the dirty boogie with Paola.
III
Profane slept that night at Pig's place down by the old ferry docks, and he slept alone. Paola had run into one of the Beatrices and gone off to stay the night with her, after promising140 demurely142 to be Profane's date at the New Year's party.
Around three Profane woke up on the kitchen floor with a headache. Night air, bitter cold, seeped143 under the door and from somewhere outside he could hear a low, persistent144 growl145. "Pig," Profane croaked146. "Where you keep the aspirin147." No answer. Profane stumbled into the other room. Pig wasn't there. The growl outside turned more ominous148. Profane went to the window and saw Pig down in the alley, sitting on his motorcycle and racing149 the engine. Snow fell in tiny glittering pinpoints150, the alley held its own curious snowlight: turning Pig to black-and-white clown's motley and ancient brick walls, dusted with snow, to neutral gray. Pig had on a knitted watch cap, pulled down over his face to the neck so that his head showed up as a sphere of dead black. Engine exhaust roiled151 in clouds around him. Profane shivered. "What are you doing, Pig," he called. Pig didn't answer. The enigma152 or sinister vision of Pig and that Harley-Davidson alone in an alley at three in the morning reminded Profane too suddenly of Rachel, whom he didn't want to think about, not tonight in the bitter cold, with a headache, with snow slipping into the room.
Rachel Owlglass had owned, back in '54, this MG. Her Daddy's gift. After giving it its shakedown cruise in the region around Grand Central (where Daddy's office was), familiarizing it with telephone poles, fire hydrants and occasional pedestrians153, she brought the car up to the Catskills for the summer. Here, little, sulky and voluptuous154, Rachel would gee155 and haw this MG around Route 17's bloodthirsty curves and cutbacks, sashaying its arrogant butt23 past hay wagons156, growling158 semis, old Ford159 roadsters filled to capacity with crewcut, undergraduate gnomes160.
Profane was just out of the Navy and working that summer as assistant salad man at Schlozhauer's Trocadero, nine miles outside Liberty, New York. His chief was one Da Conho, a mad Brazilian who wanted to go fight Arabs in Israel. One night near the opening of the season a drunken Marine had showed up in the Fiesta Lounge or bar of the Trocadero, carrying a .30-caliber machine gun in his AWOL bag. He wasn't too sure how he had come by the weapon exactly: Da Conho preferred to think it had been smuggled161 out of Parris Island piece by piece, which was how the Haganah would do it. After a deal of arguing with the bartender, who also wanted the gun, Da Conho finally triumphed, swapping162 for it three artichokes and an eggplant. To the mezuzah nailed up over the vegetable reefer and the Zionist banner hanging in back of the salad table Da Conho added this prize. During the weeks that followed, when the head chef was looking the other way, Da Conho would assemble his machine gun, camouflage163 it with iceberg164 lettuce165, watercress and Belgian endive, and mock-strafe the guests assembled in the dining room. "Yibble, yibble, yibble," he would go, squinting166 malevolent167 along the sights, "got you dead center, Abdul Sayid. Yibble, yibble, Muslim pig." Da Conho's machine gun was the only one in the world that went yibble, yibble. He would sit up past four in the morning cleaning it, dreaming of lunar-looking deserts, the sizzle of Chang music, Yemenite girls whose delicate heads were covered with white kerchiefs, whose loins ached with love. He wondered how American Jews could sit vainglorious168 in that dining room meal after meal while only halfway169 round the world the desert shifted relentless170 over corpses171 of their own. How could he tell soulless stomachs? Harangue with oil and vinegar, supplicate172 with heart of palm. The only nice he had was the machine gun's. Could they hear that, can stomachs listen: no. And you never hear the one that gets you. Aimed perhaps at any alimentary173 canal in a Hart Schaffner & Marx suit which vented174 lewd175 gurgles at the waitresses who passed, that gun was an object only, pointing where any suitable unbalance force might direct it: but which belt buckle176 was Da Conho taking a lead on: Abdul Sayid, the alimentary canal, himself? Why ask. He knew no more than that he was a Zionist, suffered, was confused, was daft to stand rooted sock-top deep in the loam177 of any kibbutz, a hemisphere away.
Profane had wondered then what it was with Da Conho and that machine gun. Love for an object, this was new to him. When he found out not long after this that the same thing was with Rachel and her MG, he had his first intelligence that something had been going on under the rose, maybe for longer and with more people than he would care to think about.
He met her through the MG, like everyone else met her. It nearly ran him over. He was wandering out the back door the kitchen one noon carrying a garbage can overflowing178 with lettuce leaves Da Conho considered substandard when somewhere off to his right he heard the MG's sinister sound. Profane kept walking, secure in a faith that burdened pedestrians have the right-of-way. Next thing he knew he way clipped in the rear end by the car's right fender. Fortunately, it was only moving at 5 mph - not fast enough to break anything, only to send Profane, garbage can and lettuce leaves flying ass over teakettle in a great green shower.
He and Rachel, both covered with lettuce leaves, looked at each other, wary179. "How romantic," she said. "For all know you may be the man of my dreams. Take that lettuce leaf off your face so I can see." Like doffing180 a cap - remembering his place - he removed the leaf.
"No," she said, "you're not him."
"Maybe," said Profane, "we can try it next time with a fig28 leaf."
"Ha, ha," she said and roared off. He found a rake and started collecting the garbage into one pile. He reflected that here was another inanimate object that had nearly killed him. He was not sure whether he meant Rachel or the car. He put the pile of lettuce leaves in the garbage can and dumped the can back of the parking lot in a small ravine which served the Trocadero for a refuse pile. As he was turning to the kitchen Rachel came by again. The MG's adenoidal exhaust sounded like it probably could be heard all the way to Liberty. "Come for a ride, hey Fatso," she called out. Profane reckoned he could. It was a couple hours before he had to go in to set up for supper.
Five minutes out on Route 17 he decided if he ever if back to the Trocadero unmaimed and alive to forget about Rachel and only be interested thenceforth in quiet, pedestrian girls. She drove like one of the damned on holiday. He had no doubt she knew the car's and her own abilities; but how did she know, for instance, when she passed on a blind curve of that two-lane road, that the milk truck approaching would be just far enough away for her to whip back into line with a whole sixteenth of an inch to spare?
He was too afraid for his life to be, as he normally was, girl-shy. He reached over, opened her pocketbook, found a cigarette, lit it. She didn't notice. She drove single-minded and unaware182 there was anyone next to her. She only spoke183 once, to tell him there was a case of cold beer in the back. He dragged on her cigarette and wondered if he had a compulsion to suicide. It seemed sometimes that he put himself deliberately184 in the way of hostile objects, as if he were looking to get schlimazzeled out of existence. Why was he here anyway? Because Rachel had a nice ass? He glanced sidewise at it on the leather, upholstery, bouncing, synched with the car; watched the not-so-simple nor quite harmonic motion of her left breast inside the black sweater she had on. She pulled in finally at an abandoned rock quarry185. Irregular chunks186 of stone were scattered187 around. He didn't know what kind, but it was all inanimate. They made it up a dirt road to a flat place forty feet above the floor of the quarry.
It was an uncomfortable afternoon. Sun beat down out of a cloudless, unprotective heaven. Profane, fat, sweated. Rachel played Do You Know the few kids she'd known who went to his high school and Profane lost. She talked about all the dates she was getting this summer, all it seemed with upperclassmen attending Ivy188 League colleges. Profane would agree from time to time how wonderful it was.
She talked about Bennington, her alma mater. She talked about herself.
Rachel came from the Five Towns on the south shore of Long Island, an area comprising Malverne, Lawrence, Cedarhurst, Hewlett and Woodmere and sometimes Long Beach and Atlantic Beach, though no one has ever thought of calling it the Seven Towns. Though the inhabitants are not Sephardim, the area seems afflicted189 with a kind of geographical190 incest. Daughters are constrained191 to pace demure141 and darkeyed like so many Rapunzels within the magic frontiers of a country where the elfin architecture of Chinese restaurants, seafood192 palaces and split-level synagogues is often enchanting as the sea; until they have ripened193 enough to be sent off to the mountains and colleges of the Northeast. Not to hunt husbands (for a certain parity has always obtained the Five Towns whereby a nice boy can be predestined for husband as early as age sixteen or seventeen); but to be anted the illusion at least of having "played the field" - so necessary to a girl's emotional development.
Only the brave escape. Come Sunday nights, with golfing done, the Negro maids, having rectified194 the disorder195 of last night's party, off to visit with relatives in Lawrence, and Ed Sullivan still hours away, the blood of this kingdom exit from their enormous homes, enter their automobiles196 and proceed to the business districts. There to divert themselves among seemingly endless vistas197 of butterfly shrimp198 and egg foo yung; Orientals bow, and smile, and flutter through summer's twilight, and in their voices are the birds of summer. And with night's fall comes a brief promenade199 in the street: the torso of the father solid and sure in its J. Press suit; the eyes of the daughters secret behind sunglasses rimmed200 in rhinestones201. And as the jaguar202 has given its name to the mother's car, so has it given its skin-pattern to the slacks which compass her sleek203 hips136. Who could escape? Who could want to?
Rachel wanted. Profane, having repaired roads around the Five Towns, could understand why.
By the time the sun was going down they'd nearly finished the case between them. Profane was balefully drunk. He got out of the car, wandered off behind a tree and pointed west, with some intention of pissing on the sun to put it out for good and all, this being somehow important for him. (Inanimate objects could do what they wanted. Not what they wanted because things do not want; only men. But things do what they do, and this is why Profane was pissing at the sun.)
It went down; as if he'd extinguished it after all and continued on immortal205, god of a darkened world.
Rachel was watching him, curious. He zipped up and staggered back to the beer box. Two cans left. He opened them and handed one to her. "I put the sun out," he said, "we drink to it." He spilled most of it down his shirt.
Two more folded cans fell to the bottom of the quarry, the empty case followed.
She hadn't moved from the car.
"Benny," one fingernail touched his face.
"Wha."
"Will you be my friend?"
"You look like you have enough."
She looked down the quarry. "Why don't we make believe none of the other is real," she said: "no Bennington, no Schlozhauer's, and no Five Towns. Only this quarry: the dead rocks that were here before us and will be after us."
"Why."
"Isn't that the world?"
"They teach you that in freshman206 geology or something?"
She looked hurt. "It's just something I know."
"Benny," she cried - a little cry - "be my friend, is all."
He shrugged207.
"Write."
"Now don't expect -"
"How the road is. Your boy's road that I'll never see, with its Diesels208 and dust, roadhouses, crossroads saloons. That's all. What it's like west of Ithaca and south of Princeton. Places I won't know."
He scratched his stomach. "Sure."
Profane kept running into her in what was left of the summer at least once a day. They talked in the car always, he trying to find the key to her own ignition behind the hooded210 eyes, she sitting back of the right-hand steering wheel and talking, talking, nothing but MG-words, inanimate-words he couldn't really talk back at.
Soon enough what he was afraid would happen happened - he finagled himself into love for Rachel and was only surprised that it had taken so long. He lay in the bunkhouse nights smoking in the dark and apostrophizing the glowing end of his cigarette butt. Around two in the morning the occupant of the upper bunk211 would come in off the night shift - one Duke Wedge, a pimpled bravo from the Chelsea district, who always wanted to talk about how much he was getting, which was, in fact, plenty. It lulled212 Profane to sleep. One night he did indeed come upon Rachel and Wedge, the scoundrel, parked in the MG in front of her cabin. He slunk back to bed, not feeling particularly betrayed because he knew Wedge wouldn't get anywhere. He even stayed awake and let Wedge regale213 him when he came in with a step-by-step account of how he had almost made it but not quite. As usual Profane fell asleep in the middle.
He never got beyond or behind the chatter214 about her world - one of objects coveted215 or valued, an atmosphere Profane couldn't breathe. The last time he saw her was Labor16 Day night. She was to leave the next day. Somebody stole Da Conho's machine gun that evening, just before supper. Da Conho dashed around in tears looking for it. The head chef told Profane to make salads. Somehow Profane managed to get frozen strawberries in the French dressing216 and chopped liver in the Waldorf salad, plus accidentally dropping two dozen or so radishes in the French fryer (though these drew raves217 from the customers when he served them anyway, too lazy to go after more) From time to time the Brazilian would come charging through the kitchen crying.
He never found his beloved machine gun. Lorn and drained-nervous, he was fired next day. The season was over anyway - for all Profane knew Da Conho may have even taken ship one day for Israel, to tinker with the guts218 of some tractor, trying to forget, like many exhausted219 workers abroad, some love back in the States.
After teardown Profane set out to find Rachel. She was out, he was informed, with the captain of the Harvard crossbow team. Profane wandered by the bunkhouse and found a morose220 Wedge, unusually mateless for the evening. Till midnight they played blackjack for all the contraceptives Wedge had not used over the summer. These numbered about a hundred. Profane borrowed 50 and had a winning streak221. When he'd cleaned Wedge out, Wedge dashed away to borrow more. He was back five minutes later, shaking his head. "Nobody believed me." Profane loaned him a few. At midnight Profane informed Wedge he was 30 in the hole. Wedge made an appropriate comment. Profane gathered up the pile of rubbers. Wedge pounded his head against the table. "He'll never use them," he said to the table. "That's the bitch of it. Never in his lifetime."
Profane wandered up by Rachel's cabin again. He heard splashing and gurgling from the courtyard in back and walked around to investigate. There she was washing her car. In the middle of the night yet. Moreover, she was talking to it.
"You beautiful stud," he heard her say, "I love to touch you." Wha, he thought. "Do you know what I feel when we're out on the road? Alone, just us?" She was running the sponge caressingly222 over its front bumper223. "Your funny responses, darling, that I know so well. The way your brakes pull a little to the left, the way you start to shudder224 around 5000 rpm when you're excited. And you burn oil when you're mad at me, don't you? I know." There was none of your madness in her voice; it might have been a schoolgirl's game, though still, he admitted, quaint. "We'll always be together," running a chamois over the hood209, "and you needn't worry about that black Buick we passed on the road today. Ugh: fat, greasy225 Mafia car. I expected to see a body come flying out the back door, didn't you? Besides, you're so angular and proper-English and tweedy - and oh so Ivy that I couldn't ever leave you, dear." It occurred to Profane that he might vomit226. Public displays of sentiment often affected227 him this way. She had climbed in the car and now lay hack228 in the driver's seat, her throat open to the summer constellations229. He was about to approach her when he saw her left hand snake out all pale to fondle the gearshift. He watched and noticed how she was touching230 it. Having just been with Wedge he got the connection. He didn't want to see any more. He ambled231 away over a hill and into the woods and when he got back to the Trocadero he couldn't have said exactly where he'd been walking. All the cabins were dark. The front office was still open. The clerk had stepped out. Profane rooted around in desk drawers till he found a box of thumbtacks. He returned to the cabins and till three in the morning he moved along the starlit aisles232 between them, tacking233 up one of Wedge's contraceptives on each door. No one interrupted him. He felt like the Angel of Death, marking the doors of tomorrow's victims in blood. The purpose of a mezuzah was to fake the Angel out so he'd pass by. On these hundred or so cabins Profane didn't see mezuzah one. So much the worse.
After the summer, then, there'd been letters his surly and full of wrong words, hers by turns witty234, desperate, passionate235. A year later she'd graduated from Bennington and come to New York to work as a receptionist in an employment agency, and so he'd seen her in New York, once or twice, when he passed through; and though they only thought about one another at random, though her yo-yo hand was usually busy at other things, now and again would come the invisible, umbilical tug236, like tonight mnemonic, arousing, and he would wonder how much his own man he was. One thing he had to give her credit for, she'd never called it a Relationship.
"What is it then, hey," he'd asked once.
"A secret," with her small child's smile, which like Rodgers arid Hammerstein in 3/4 time rendered Profane fluttery and gelatinous.
She visited him occasionally, as now, at night, like a succubus coming in with the snow. There was no way he knew to keep either out.
IV
As it turned out, the New Year's party was to end all yo-yoing at least for a time. The reunion descended237 on Susanna Squaducci, conned238 the night watchmen with a bottle of wine, and allowed a party from a destroyer in drydock (after some preliminary brawling) to come aboard.
Paola stuck close at first to Profane, who had eyes for a voluptuous lady in some sort of fur coat who claimed to be an admiral's wife. There was a portable radio, noisemakers, wine, wine. Dewey Gland decided to climb a mast. The mast had just been painted but Dewey climbed on, turning more zebralike the higher he went, guitar dangling239 below him. When he got to the cross-trees, Dewey sat down, plonked on the guitar and began to sing in hillbilly dialect:
Depuis que je suis ne
J'ai vu mourir des peres,
J'ai vu partir des freres,
Et des enfants pleurer . . .
The para again. Who haunted this week. Since I was born (said he) I've seen fathers die, brothers go away, little kid, cry.
"What was that airborne boy's problem," Profane asked her the first time she translated it for him. "Who hasn't seen that, It happens for other reasons besides war. Why blame war. I was born in a Hooverville, before the war."
"That's it," Paola said. "Je suis ne. Being born. That's all you have to do."
Dewey's voice sounded like part of the inanimate wind, so high overhead. What had happened to Guy Lombardo and "Auld Lang Syne"?
At one minute into 1956 Dewey was down on deck and Profane was up straddling a spar, looking down at Pig and the admiral's wife, copulating directly below. A sea gull32 swooped240 in out of the snow's sky, circled, lit on the spar a foot from Profane's hand. "Yo, sea gull," said Profane. Sea gull didn't answer.
"Oh, man," Profane said to the night. "I like to see young people get together." He scanned the main deck. Paola had disappeared. All at once things erupted. There was a siren, two, out in the street. Cars came roaring on to the pier43, gray Chevys with U. S. Navy written on the sides. Spotlights242 came on, little men in white hats and black-and-yellow SP armbands milled around on the pier. Three alert revelers ran along the port side, throwing gangplanks into the water. A sound truck joined the vehicles on the dock, whose number was growing almost to a full-sized motor pool.
"All right you men," 50 watts243 of disembodied voice began to bellow102: "all right you men." That was about all it had to say. The admiral's wife started shrieking244 about how it was her husband, caught up with her at last. Two or three spotlights pinned them where they lay (in burning sin), Pig trying to get the thirteen buttons on his blues245 into the right buttonholes, which is nearly impossible when you're in a hurry. Cheers and laughter from the pier. Some of the SP's were coming across rat-fashion on the mooring246 lines. Ex-Scaffold sailors, roused from sleep below decks, came stumbling up the ladders while Dewey yelled, "Now stand by to repel247 boarders," and waved his guitar like a cutlass.
Profane watched it all and half-worried about Paola. He looked for her but the spotlights kept moving around, screwing up the illumination on the main deck. It started to snow again. "Suppose," said Profane to the sea gull, who was blinking at him, "suppose I was God." He inched on to the dorm and lay on his stomach, with nose, eyes and cowboy hat sticking over the edge, like a horizontal Kilroy.
"If I was God . . ." He pointed at an SP; "Zap, SP, your ass has had it." The SP kept on at what he'd been doing: battering a 250-pound fire controlman named Patsy Pagano in the stomach with a night stick.
The motor pool on the pier was augmented248 by a cattle car, which is Navy for paddy wagon157 or Black Maria.
"Zap," said Profane, "cattle car, keep going and drive off end of the pier," which it almost did but braked in time. "Patsy Pagano, grow wings and fly out of here." But a final clobber249 sent Patsy down for good. The SP left him where he was. It would take six men to move him. "What's the matter," Profane wondered. The sea bird, bored with all this, took off in the direction of N.O.B. Maybe, Profane thought, God is supposed to be more positive, instead of throwing thunderbolts all the time. Carefully he pointed a finger. "Dewey Gland. Sing them that Algerian pacifist song." Dewey, now astride a lifeline on the bridge, gave a bass250 string intro and began to sing Blue Suede Shoes, after Elvis Presley. Profane flopped251 over on his back, blinking up into the snow.
"Well, almost," he said, to the gone bird, to the snow. He put the hat over his face, closed his eyes. And soon was asleep.
Noise below diminished. Bodies were carried off, stacked in the cattle car. The sound truck, after several bursts of feedback noise, was switched off and driven away. Spotlights went out, sirens dopplered away in the direction off shore patrol headquarters.
Profane woke up early in the morning, covered with a thin layer of snow and feeling the onset252 of a bad cold. He blundered down the ladder's ice-covered rungs, slipping about every other step. The ship was deserted253. He headed below decks to get warm.
Again, he was in the guts of something inanimate. Noise a few decks below: night watchman, most likely. "You can't ever be alone," Profane mumbled, tiptoeing along a passageway. He spotted254 a mousetrap on deck, picked it up carefully and heaved it down the passageway. It hit a bulkhead and went off with a loud SNAP. Sound of the footsteps quit abruptly255. Then started again, more cautious, moved under Profane and up a ladder, toward where the mousetrap lay.
"Ha-ha," said Profane. He sneaked256 around a corner, found another mousetrap and dropped it down a companionway. SNAP. Footsteps went pattering back down the ladder.
Four mousetraps later, Profane found himself in the galley257, where the watchman had set up a primitive258 coffee mess. Figuring the watchman would be confused for a few minutes, Profane set a pot of water to boil on the hotplate.
"Hey," yelled the watchman, two decks above.
"Oh, oh," said Profane. He sneaky-Peted out of the galley and went looking for more mousetraps. He found one up on the next deck, stepped outside, lobbed it up in an invisible arc. If nothing else he was saving mice. There was a muffed snap and a scream from above.
"My coffee," Profane muttered, taking the steps down two at a time. He threw a handful of grounds into the boiling water and slipped out the other side, nearly running into the night watchman who was stalking along with a mousetrap hanging off his left sleeve. It was close enough so Profane could see the patient, martyred look on this watchman's face. Watchman entered the galley and Profane was off. He made it up three decks before he heard the bellowing from the galley.
"What now?" He wandered into a passageway lined with empty staterooms. Found a piece of chalk left by a welder259, wrote SCREW THE SUSANNA SQUADUCCI and DOWN WITH ALL YOU RICH BASTARDS260 on the bulkhead, signed it THE PHANTOM261 and felt better. Who'd be sailing off to Italy in this thing? Chairmen of the board, movie stars, deported262 racketeers, maybe. "Tonight," Profane purred, "tonight, Susanna, you belong to me:" His to mark up, to set mousetraps off in. More than any paid passenger would ever do for her. He moseyed along the passageway, collecting mousetraps.
Outside the galley again he started throwing them in all directions. "Ha, ha," said the night watchman. "Go ahead, make noise. I'm drinking your coffee."
So he was. Profane absently hefted his one remaining mousetrap. It went off, catching263 three fingers between the first and second knuckles264.
What do I do, he wondered, scream? No. The night watchman was laughing hard enough as it was. Setting his teeth Profane unpried the trap from his hand, reset265 it, tossed it through a porthole to the galley and fled. He reached the pier and got a snowball in the back of the head, which knocked off the cowboy hat. He stooped to get the hat and thought about returning the shot. No. He kept running.
Paola was at the ferry, waiting. She took his arm as they went on board. All he said was: "We ever going to get off this ferry?"
"You have snow on you." She reached up to brush it off and he almost kissed her. Cold was turning the mousetrap injury numb65. Wind had started up, coming in from Norfolk. This crossing they stayed inside.
Rachel caught up with him in the bus station in Norfolk. He sat slouched next to Paola on a wooden bench worn pallid266 and greasy with a generation of random duffs, two one-way tickets for New York, New York tucked inside the cowboy hat. He had his eyes closed, he was trying to sleep. He had just begun to drift off when the paging system called his name.
He knew immediately, even before he was fully204 awake, who it must be. Just a hunch267. He had been thinking about her.
"Dear Benny," Rachel said, "I've called every bus station in the country." He could hear a party on in the background. New Year's night. Where he was there was only an old clock to tell the time. And a dozen homeless, slouched on wooden bench, trying to sleep. Waiting for a long-haul bus run neither by Greyhound nor Trailways. He watched them and let her talk. She was saying, "Come home." The only one he would allow to tell him this except for an internal voice he would rather disown as prodigal268 than listen to.
"You know -" he tried to say.
"I'll send you bus fare."
She would.
A hollow, twanging sound dragged across the floor toward him. Dewey Gland, morose and all bones, trailed his guitar behind him. Profane interrupted her gently. "Here is my friend Dewey Gland," he said, almost whispering. "He would like to sing you a little song."
Dewey sang her the old Depression song, Wanderin'. Eels269 in the ocean, eels in the sea, a redheaded woman made a fool of me. . .
Rachel's hair was red, veined with premature270 gray, so long she could take it in back with one hand, lift it above her head and let it fall forward over her long eyes. Which for a girl 4'10" in stocking feet is a ridiculous gesture; or should be.
He felt that invisible, umbilical string tug at his midsection. He thought of long fingers, through which, maybe, he might catch sight of the blue sky, once in a while.
And it looks like I'm never going to cease.
"She wants you," Dewey said. The girl at the Information desk was frowning. Big-boned, motley complexion271: girl from out of town somewhere, whose eyes dreamed of grinning Buick grilles, Friday night shuffleboard at some roadhouse.
"I want you," Rachel said. He moved his chin across the mouthpiece, making grating sounds with a three-day growth. He thought that all the way up north, along a 500-mile length of underground phone cable, there must be earthworms, blind trollfolk, listening in. Trolls know a lot of magic: could they change words, do vocal272 imitations? "Will you just drift, then," she said. Behind her he heard somebody barfing and those who watched laughing, hysterically273. Jazz on the record player.
He wanted to say, God, the things we want. He said: "How is the party."
"It's over at Raoul's," she said. Raoul, Slab274, and Melvin being part of a crowd of disaffected275 which someone had labeled The Whole Sick Crew. They lived half their time in a bar on the lower West Side called the Rusty Spoon. He thought of the Sailor's Grave and could not see much difference.
"Benny." She had never cried, never that he could remember. It worried him. But she might be faking. "Ciao," she said. That phony, Greenwich Village way to avoid saying good-bye. He hung up.
"There's a nice fight on," Dewey Gland said, sullen276 and redeyed. "Old Ploy is so juiced he went and bit a Marine on the ass."
If you look from the side at a planet swinging around in its orbit, split the sun with a mirror and imagine a string, it all looks like a yo-yo. The point furthest from the sun is called aphelion277. The point furthest from the yo-yo hand is called, by analogy, apocheir.
Profane and Paola left for New York that night. Dewey Gland went back to the ship and Profane never saw him again. Pig had taken off on the Harley, destination unknown. On the Greyhound were one young couple who would, come sleep for the other passengers, make it in a rear seat; one pencil-sharpener salesman who had seen every territory in the country and could give you interesting information on any city, no matter which one you happened to be heading for; and four infants, each with an incompetent278 mother, scattered at strategic locations throughout the bus, who babbled279, cooed, vomited, practiced self-asphyxia, drooled. At least one managed to be screaming all through the twelve-hour trip.
About the time they hit Maryland, Profane decided to get it over with. "Not that I'm trying to get rid of you," handing her a ticket envelope with Rachel's address on it in pencil, "but I don't know how long I'll be in the city." He didn't.
She nodded. "Are you in love, then."
"She's a good woman. She'll put you on to a job, find you a place to stay. Don't ask me if we're in love. The word doesn't mean anything. Here's her address. You can take the West Side IRT right up there."
"What are you afraid of."
"Go to sleep." She did, on Profane's shoulder.
At the 34th Street station, in New York, he gave her a brief salute280. "I may be around. But I hope not. It's complicated."
"Shall I tell her . . ."
"She'll know. That's the trouble. There's nothing you - I - can tell her she doesn't know."
"Call me, Ben. Please. Maybe."
"Right," he told her. "maybe."
V
So in January 1956 Benny Profane showed up again in New York. He came into town at the tag-end of a spell of false spring, found a mattress281 at a downtown flophouse called Our Home, and a newspaper at an uptown kiosk; roar around the streets late that night studying the classified streetlight. As usual nobody wanted him in particular.
If anybody had been around to remember him they would have noticed right off that Profane hadn't changed. Still great amoebalike boy, soft and fat, hair cropped close and growing in patches, eyes small like a pig's and set too far apart. Road work had done nothing to improve the outward Profane, or the inward one either. Though the street by claimed a big fraction of Profane's age, it and he remained strangers in every way. Streets (roads, circles, square places, prospects) had taught him nothing: he couldn't work a transit282, crane, payloader, couldn't lay bricks, stretch a tape right, hold an elevation283 rod still, hadn't even learned to drive a car. He walked; walked, he thought sometimes, the aisles of a bright, gigantic supermarket, his only function to want.
One morning Profane woke up early, couldn't get back sleep and decided on a whim to spend the day like a yo-yo, shuttling on the subway back and forth181 underneath284 42nd Street, from Times Square to Grand Central and vice285 versa. He made his way to the washroom of Our Home, tripping over two empty mattresses286 on route. Cut himself shaving, had trouble extracting the blade and gashed287 a finger. He took a shower to get rid of the blood. The handles wouldn't turn. When he finally found a shower that worked, the water came out hot and cold in random patterns. He danced around, yowling and shivering, slipped on a bar of soap and nearly broke his neck. Drying off, he ripped a frayed288 towel in half, rendering289 it useless. He put on his skivvy shirt backwards, took ten minutes getting his fly zipped and other fifteen repairing a shoelace which had broken as was tying it. All the rests of his morning songs were silent cuss words. It wasn't that he was tired or even notably290 uncoordinated. Only something that, being a schiemihl he'd known for years: inanimate objects and he could not live in peace.
Profane took a Lexington Avenue local up to Grand Central. As it happened, the subway car he got into was filled with all manner of ravishingly gorgeous knockouts: secretaries on route to work and jailbait to school. It was too much, too much. Profane hung on the handgrip, weak. He was visited on a lunar basis by these great unspecific waves of horniness, whereby all women within a certain age group and figure envelope became immediately and impossibly desirable. He emerged from these spells with eyeballs still oscillating and a wish that his neck could rotate through the full 360 degrees.
The shuttle after morning rush hour is near empty, like a littered beach after tourists have all gone home. In the hours between nine and noon the permanent residents come creeping back up their strand291, shy and tentative. Since sunup all manner of affluent292 have filled the limits of that world with a sense of summer and life; now sleeping bums293 and old ladies on relief, who have been there all along unnoticed, re-establish a kind of property right, and the coming on of a falling season.
On his eleventh or twelfth transit Profane fell asleep and dreamed. He was awakened294 close to noon by three Puerto Rican kids named Tolito, Jose and Kook, short for Cucarachito. They had this act, which was for money even though they knew that the subway on weekday mornings, no es bueno for dancing and bongos. Jose carried around a coffee can which upside down served to rattle295 off their raving296 merengues or baions on, and hollow side up to receive from an appreciative297 audience pennies, transit tokens, chewing gum, spit.
Profane blinked awake and watched them, jazzing around, doing handsprings, aping courtship. They swung from the handle-grips, shimmied up the poles; Tolito tossing Kook the seven-year-old about the car like a beanbag and behind it all, clobbering298 polyrhythmic to the racketing of the shuttle, Jose on his tin drum, forearms and hands vibrating out beyond the persistence299 of vision, and a tireless smile across his teeth wide as the West Side.
They passed the can as the train was pulling into Times Square. Profane closed his eyes before they got to him. They sat on the seat opposite, counting the take, feet dangling. Kook was in the middle, the other two were trying to push him on the floor. Two teen-age boys from their neighborhood entered the car: black chinos, black shirts, black gang jack with PLAYBOYS lettered in dripping red on the back. Abruptly all motion among the three on the seat stopped. They held each other, staring wide-eyed.
Kook, the baby, could hold nothing in. "Maricon!" he yelled gleefully. Profane's eyes came open. Heel-taps of older boys moved past, aloof300 and staccato to the next car. Tolito put his hand on Kook's head, trying to squash him down through the floor, out of sight. Kook slipped away. The doors closed, the shuttle started off again for Grand Central. The three turned their attention to Profane.
"Hey, man," Kook said. Profane watched him, half-cautious.
"How come," Jose said. He put the coffee can absently on his head, where it slipped down over his ears. "How come you didn't get off at Times Square."
"He was asleep," Tolito said.
"He's a yo-yo," Jose said. "Wait and see." They forgot Profane for the moment, moved forward a car and did their routine. They came back as the train was starting off again from Grand Central,
"See," Jose said.
"Hey man," Kook said, "how come."
"You out of a job," Tolito said.
"Why don't you hunt alligators301, like my brother," Kook said.
"Kook's brother shoots them with a shotgun," Tolito slid.
"If you need a job, you should hunt alligators," Jose said.
Profane scratched his stomach. He looked at the floor.
"Is it steady," he said.
The subway pulled in to Times Square, disgorged passengers, took more on, shut up its doors and shrieked302 away down the tunnel. Another shuttle came in, on a different track. Bodies milled in the brown light, a loudspeaker announced shuttles. It was lunch hour. The subway station began to buzz, fill with human noise and motion. Tourists were coming back in droves. Another train arrived, opened, closed, was gone. The press on the wooden platforms grew, along with an air of discomfort303, hunger, uneasy bladders, suffocation304. The first shuttle returned.
Among the crowd that squeezed inside this time was young girl wearing a black coat, her hair hanging long outside it. She searched four cars before she found Kook, sitting next to Profane, watching him.
"He wants to help Angel kill the alligators," Kook told her. Profane was asleep, lying diagonal on the seat.
An this dream, he was all alone, as usual. Walking on a street at night where there was nothing but his own field of vision alive. It had to be night on that street. The lights gleamed unflickering on hydrants; manhole covers which lay around in the street. There were neon signs scattered here and there, spelling out words he wouldn't remember when woke.
Somehow it was all tied up with a story he'd heard once, about a boy born with a golden screw where his navel should have been. For twenty years he consults doctors and specialists all over the world, trying to get rid of this screw, and having no success. Finally, in Haiti, he runs into a voodoo doctor who gives him a foul-smelling potion. He drinks it, goes to sleep and has a dream. In this dream he finds himself on a street, lit by green lamps. Following the witch-man's instructions, he takes two rights and a left from his point of origin, finds a tree growing by the seventh street light, hung all over with colored balloons. On the fourth limb from the top there is a red balloon; he breaks it and inside is a screwdriver305 with a yellow plastic handle. With the screwdriver he removes the screw from his stomach, and as soon as this happens he wakes from the dream. It is morning. He looks down toward his navel, the screw is gone. That twenty years' curse is lifted at last. Delirious306 with joy, he leaps up out of bed, and his ass falls off.
To Profane, alone in the street, it would always seem maybe he was looking for something too to make the fact of his own disassembly plausible307 as that of any machine. It was always at this point that the fear started: here that it would turn into a nightmare. Because now, if he kept going down that street, not only his ass but also his arms, legs, sponge brain and clock of a heart must be left behind to litter the pavement, be scattered among manhole covers.
Was it home, the mercury-lit street? Was he returning like the elephant to his graveyard308, to lie down and soon become ivory in whose bulk slept, latent, exquisite309 shapes of chessmen, backscratchers, hollow open-work Chinese spheres nested one inside the other?
This was all there was to dream; all there ever was: the Street. Soon he woke, having found no screwdriver, no key. Woke to a girl's face, near his own. Kook stood in the background, feet braced310 apart, head hanging. From two cars away, riding above the racketing of the subway over points, came the metallic311 rattle of Tolito on the coffee can.
Her face was young, soft. She had a brown mole312 on one cheek. She'd been talking to him before his eyes were open. She wanted him to come home with her. Her name was Josefina Mendoza, she was Kook's sister, she lived uptown. She must help him. He had no idea what was happening.
"Wha, lady," he said, "wha."
"Do you like it here," she cried.
"I do not like it, lady, no," said Profane. The train was heading toward Times Square, crowded. Two old ladies who had been shopping at Bloomingdale's stood glaring hostile at them from up the car. Fina started to cry. The other kids came charging back in, singing. "Help," Profane said. He didn't know who he was asking. He'd awakened loving every woman in the city, wanting them all: here was one who wanted to take him home. The shuttle pulled into Times Square, the doors flew open. In a swoop241, only half aware of what he was doing, he gathered Kook in one arm and ran out the door: Fina, with tropical birds peeking313 from her green dress whenever the black coat flew open, followed, hands joined with Tolito and Jose in a line. They ran through the station, beneath a chain of green lights, Profane loping unathletic into trash cans and Coke machines. Kook broke away and tore broken-field through the noon crowd. "Luis Aparicio," he screamed, sliding for some private home plate: "Luis Aparicio," wreaking314 havoc315 through a troop of Girl Scouts316. Down the stairs, over to the uptown local, a train was waiting, Fina and the kids got in; as Profane started through the doors closed on him, squeezing him in the middle. Fina's eyes went wide like her brother's. With a frightened little cry she took Profane's hand and tugged, and a miracle happened. The doors opened again. She gathered him inside, into her quiet field of force. He knew all at once: here, for the time being, Profane the schlemihl can move nimble and sure. All the way home Kook sang Tienes Mi Corazon, a love song he had heard once in a movie.
They lived uptown in the 80's, between Amsterdam Avenue and Broadway. Fina, Kook, mother, father, and another brother named Angel. Sometimes Angel's friend Geronimo would come over and sleep on the kitchen floor. The old man was on relief. The mother fell in love with Profane immediately. They gave him the bathtub.
Next day Kook found him sleeping there and turned on the cold water. "Jesus God," Profane yelled, spluttering awake.
"Man, you go find a job," Kook said. "Fina says so." Profane jumped up and went chasing Kook through the little apartment, trailing water behind him. In the front room he tripped over Angel and Geronimo, who were lying there drinking wine and talking about the girls they would watch that day in Riverside Park. Kook escaped, laughing and screaming "Luis Aparicio." Profane lay there with his nose pressed against the floor. "Have some wine," Angel said.
A few hours later, they all came reeling down the steps of the old brownstone, horribly drunk. Angel and Geronimo were arguing about whether it was too cold for girls to be the park. They walked west in the middle of the street. The sky was overcast317 and dismal318. Profane kept bumping into cars. At the corner they invaded a hot dog stand and drank a pina colada to sober up. It did no good. They made it to Riverside Drive, where Geronimo collapsed319. Profane and Angel picked him up and ran across the street with him held like a battering ram94, down a hill and into the park. Profane tripped over a rock and the three of them went flying. They lay on the frozen grass while a bunch of kids in fat wool coats ran back and forth over them, playing pitch and catch with a bright yellow beanbag. Geronimo started to sing.
"Man," Angel said, "there is one." She came walking a lean, nasty-face poodle. Young, with long hair that danced and shimmered320 against the collar of her coat. Geronimo broke off the song to say "Cono" and wobble his fingers. Then he continued, singing now to her. She didn't notice any of them, but headed uptown, serene321 and smiling at the naked trees. Their eyes followed her out of sight. They felt sad.
Angel sighed. "There are so many," he said. "So many millions and millions of girls. Here in New York, and in Boston, where I was once and in thousands more cities . . . It makes me lose heart."
"Out in Jersey322 too," said Profane. "I worked in Jersey."
"A lot of good stuff in Jersey," Angel said.
"Out on the road," said Profane. "They were all in cars."
"Geronimo and I work in the sewers," Angel said. "Under the street. You don't see anything down there."
"Under the street," Profane repeated after a minute: "under the Street."
Geronimo stopped singing and told Profane how it was. Did he remember the baby alligators? Last year, or maybe the year before, kids all over Nueva York bought these little alligators for pets. Macy's was selling them for fifty cents, every child, it seemed, had to have one. But soon the children grew bored with them. Some set them loose in the streets, but most flushed them down the toilets. And these had grown and reproduced, had fed off rats and sewage, so that now they moved big, blind, albino, all over the sewer323 system. Down there, God knew how many there were. Some had turned cannibal because in their neighborhood the rats had all been eaten, or had fled in terror.
Since the sewer scandal last year, the Department had got conscientious324. They called for volunteers to go down with shotguns and get rid of the alligators. Not many had volunteered. Those who had quit soon. Angel and he, Geronimo said proudly, had been there three months longer than anybody.
Profane, all at once was sober. "Are they still looking for volunteers," he said slowly. Angel started to sing. Profane rolled over glaring at Geronimo. "Hey?"
"Sure," Geronimo said. "You ever use a shotgun before?"
Profane said yes. He never had, and never would, not at street level. But a shotgun under the street, under the Street, might be all right. He could kill himself but maybe it would be all right. He could try.
"I will talk to Mr. Zeitsuss, the boss," said Geronimo.
The beanbag hung for a second jolly and bright in the air. "Look, look," the kids cried: "look at it fall!"
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收听单词发音
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1
profane
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| adj.亵神的，亵渎的；vt.亵渎，玷污 | |
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suede
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| n.表面粗糙的软皮革 | |
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3
jack
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| n.插座，千斤顶，男人；v.抬起，提醒，扛举；n.（Jake）杰克 | |
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ass
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| n.驴；傻瓜，蠢笨的人 | |
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sentimental
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| adj.多愁善感的，感伤的 | |
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tavern
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| n.小旅馆，客栈；小酒店 | |
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arcade
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| n.拱廊；(一侧或两侧有商店的)通道 | |
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patrician
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| adj.贵族的，显贵的；n.贵族；有教养的人；罗马帝国的地方官 | |
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9
seamen
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| n.海员 | |
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apprentice
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| n.学徒，徒弟 | |
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standing
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| n.持续，地位；adj.永久的，不动的，直立的，不流动的 | |
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12
rue
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| n.懊悔，芸香，后悔；v.后悔，悲伤，懊悔 | |
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13
par
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| n.标准，票面价值，平均数量；adj.票面的，平常的，标准的 | |
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14
champagne
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| n.香槟酒；微黄色 | |
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seaman
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| n.海员，水手，水兵 | |
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16
labor
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| n.劳动，努力，工作，劳工；分娩；vi.劳动，努力，苦干；vt.详细分析；麻烦 | |
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17
ghetto
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| n.少数民族聚居区，贫民区 | |
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18
abruptness
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| n. 突然，唐突 | |
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19
twilight
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| n.暮光，黄昏；暮年，晚期，衰落时期 | |
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20
marine
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| adj.海的；海生的；航海的；海事的；n.水兵 | |
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21
propeller
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| n.螺旋桨，推进器 | |
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22
tattooed
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| v.刺青，文身( tattoo的过去式和过去分词 )；连续有节奏地敲击；作连续有节奏的敲击 | |
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23
butt
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| n.笑柄；烟蒂；枪托；臀部；v.用头撞或顶 | |
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24
alley
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| n.小巷，胡同；小径，小路 | |
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25
vibration
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| n.颤动，振动；摆动 | |
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26
receding
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| v.逐渐远离( recede的现在分词 )；向后倾斜；自原处后退或避开别人的注视；尤指问题 | |
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27
asymmetric
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| a.不对称的 | |
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28
fig
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| n.无花果(树) | |
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29
doorway
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| n.门口，(喻)入门；门路，途径 | |
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30
brass
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| n.黄铜；黄铜器，铜管乐器 | |
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31
gulls
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| n.鸥( gull的名词复数 )v.欺骗某人( gull的第三人称单数 ) | |
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32
gull
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| n.鸥；受骗的人；v.欺诈 | |
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33
beak
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| n.鸟嘴，茶壶嘴，钩形鼻 | |
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beaks
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| n.鸟嘴( beak的名词复数 )；鹰钩嘴；尖鼻子；掌权者 | |
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35
Mediterranean
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| adj.地中海的；地中海沿岸的 | |
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yarn
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| n.纱，纱线，纺线；奇闻漫谈，旅行轶事 | |
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37
creek
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| n.小溪，小河，小湾 | |
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38
flexing
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| n.挠曲，可挠性v.屈曲( flex的现在分词 )；弯曲；（为准备大干而）显示实力；摩拳擦掌 | |
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39
auld
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| adj.老的，旧的 | |
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40
syne
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| adv.自彼时至此时，曾经 | |
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41
flakes
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| 小薄片( flake的名词复数 )； （尤指）碎片； 雪花； 古怪的人 | |
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42
manly
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| adj.有男子气概的；adv.男子般地，果断地 | |
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43
pier
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| n.码头；桥墩，桥柱；[建]窗间壁，支柱 | |
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44
yelp
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| vi.狗吠 | |
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45
flinched
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| v.（因危险和痛苦）退缩，畏惧( flinch的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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46
ploy
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| n.花招，手段 | |
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impulsive
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| adj.冲动的，刺激的；有推动力的 | |
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48
decided
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| adj.决定了的，坚决的；明显的，明确的 | |
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49
incensed
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| 盛怒的 | |
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50
fending
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| v.独立生活，照料自己( fend的现在分词 )；挡开，避开 | |
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51
gut
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| n.[pl.]胆量；内脏；adj.本能的；vt.取出内脏 | |
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52
harangue
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| n.慷慨冗长的训话，言辞激烈的讲话 | |
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53
bawled
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| v.大叫，大喊( bawl的过去式和过去分词 )；放声大哭；大声叫出；叫卖（货物） | |
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54
gargantuan
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| adj.巨大的，庞大的 | |
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55
scrutinizing
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| v.仔细检查，详审( scrutinize的现在分词 ) | |
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56
compartment
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| n.卧车包房，隔间；分隔的空间 | |
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57
bastard
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| n.坏蛋，混蛋；私生子 | |
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58
jaws
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| n.口部；嘴 | |
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59
watery
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| adj.有水的，水汪汪的；湿的，湿润的 | |
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60
maternal
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| adj.母亲的，母亲般的，母系的，母方的 | |
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61
foam
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| v./n.泡沫，起泡沫 | |
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62
gland
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| n.腺体，(机)密封压盖，填料盖 | |
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propped
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| 支撑，支持，维持( prop的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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64
civilian
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| adj.平民的，民用的，民众的 | |
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65
numb
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| adj.麻木的，失去感觉的；v.使麻木 | |
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66
miasma
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| n.毒气；不良气氛 | |
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67
enveloped
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| v.包围，笼罩，包住( envelop的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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68
peripheral
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| adj.周边的，外围的 | |
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69
ineptly
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| adv. 不适当地，无能地 | |
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70
baboon
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| n.狒狒 | |
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71
metro
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| n.地铁；adj.大都市的；(METRO)麦德隆(财富500强公司之一总部所在地德国，主要经营零售) | |
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72
gangster
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| n.匪徒，歹徒，暴徒 | |
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73
sinister
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| adj.不吉利的，凶恶的，左边的 | |
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74
littoral
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| adj.海岸的；湖岸的；n.沿（海）岸地区 | |
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75
stereotypes
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| n.老套，模式化的见解，有老一套固定想法的人( stereotype的名词复数 )v.把…模式化，使成陈规( stereotype的第三人称单数 ) | |
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76
nostrils
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| 鼻孔( nostril的名词复数 ) | |
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77
eyebrows
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| 眉毛( eyebrow的名词复数 ) | |
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78
scraps
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| 油渣 | |
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79
locker
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| n.更衣箱，储物柜，冷藏室，上锁的人 | |
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80
peculiar
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| adj.古怪的，异常的；特殊的，特有的 | |
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81
hopping
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| n. 跳跃 动词hop的现在分词形式 | |
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82
pointed
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| adj.尖的，直截了当的 | |
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83
hush
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| int.嘘，别出声；n.沉默，静寂；v.使安静 | |
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84
momentary
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| adj.片刻的，瞬息的；短暂的 | |
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85
truce
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| n.休战，(争执，烦恼等的)缓和；v.以停战结束 | |
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86
fervent
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| adj.热的，热烈的，热情的 | |
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87
gaping
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| adj.口的；张口的；敞口的；多洞穴的v.目瞪口呆地凝视( gape的现在分词 )；张开，张大 | |
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88
militant
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| adj.激进的，好斗的；n.激进分子，斗士 | |
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89
atheist
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| n.无神论者 | |
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90
inmates
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| n.囚犯( inmate的名词复数 ) | |
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91
coalesced
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| v.联合，合并( coalesce的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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92
tars
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| 焦油，沥青，柏油( tar的名词复数 ) | |
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93
poised
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| a.摆好姿势不动的 | |
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94
ram
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| (random access memory)随机存取存储器 | |
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95
backwards
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| adv.往回地，向原处，倒，相反，前后倒置地 | |
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96
simultaneously
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| adv.同时发生地，同时进行地 | |
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97
momentum
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| n.动力，冲力，势头；动量 | |
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98
gush
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| v.喷，涌；滔滔不绝(说话)；n.喷，涌流；迸发 | |
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99
cascade
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| n.小瀑布，喷流；层叠；vi.成瀑布落下 | |
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100
battering
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| n.用坏，损坏v.连续猛击( batter的现在分词 ) | |
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101
breach
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| n.违反，不履行；破裂；vt.冲破，攻破 | |
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102
bellow
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| v.吼叫，怒吼；大声发出，大声喝道 | |
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103
bellowing
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| v.发出吼叫声，咆哮（尤指因痛苦）( bellow的现在分词 )；（愤怒地）说出（某事），大叫 | |
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104
cuffs
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| n.袖口( cuff的名词复数 )v.掌打，拳打( cuff的第三人称单数 ) | |
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105
denim
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| n.斜纹棉布；斜纹棉布裤，牛仔裤 | |
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106
inhuman
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| adj.残忍的，不人道的，无人性的 | |
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107
voyeur
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| n.窥淫狂者，窥隐私者 | |
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108
scribbling
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| n.乱涂[写]胡[乱]写的文章[作品]v.潦草的书写( scribble的现在分词 )；乱画；草草地写；匆匆记下 | |
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109
hieroglyphics
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| n.pl.象形文字 | |
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110
slitting
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| n.纵裂（缝）v.切开，撕开( slit的现在分词 )；在…上开狭长口子 | |
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111
teeming
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| adj.丰富的v.充满( teem的现在分词 )；到处都是；（指水、雨等）暴降；倾注 | |
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112
flailing
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| v.鞭打( flail的现在分词 )；用连枷脱粒；（臂或腿）无法控制地乱动；扫雷坦克 | |
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113
lieutenants
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| n.陆军中尉( lieutenant的名词复数 )；副职官员；空军；仅低于…官阶的官员 | |
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114
piers
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| n.水上平台( pier的名词复数 )；（常设有娱乐场所的）突堤；柱子；墙墩 | |
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115
procured
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| v.（努力）取得， （设法）获得( procure的过去式和过去分词 )；拉皮条 | |
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116
lashing
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| n.鞭打；痛斥；大量；许多v.鞭打( lash的现在分词 )；煽动；紧系；怒斥 | |
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117
sling
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| vt.扔；悬挂；n.挂带；吊索，吊兜；弹弓 | |
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118
avid
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| adj.热心的；贪婪的；渴望的；劲头十足的 | |
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119
whim
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| n.一时的兴致，突然的念头；奇想，幻想 | |
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120
mutual
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| adj.相互的，彼此的；共同的，共有的 | |
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121
decode
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| vt.译（码），解（码） | |
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122
bum
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| n.臀部；流浪汉，乞丐；vt.乞求，乞讨 | |
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123
brutal
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| adj.残忍的，野蛮的，不讲理的 | |
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124
miraculous
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| adj.像奇迹一样的，不可思议的 | |
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125
random
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| adj.随机的；任意的；n.偶然的(或随便的)行动 | |
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126
derived
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| vi.起源；由来；衍生；导出v.得到( derive的过去式和过去分词 )；（从…中）得到获得；源于；（从…中）提取 | |
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127
quaint
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| adj.古雅的，离奇有趣的，奇怪的 | |
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128
wavy
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| adj.有波浪的，多浪的，波浪状的，波动的，不稳定的 | |
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129
groan
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| vi./n.呻吟，抱怨；(发出)呻吟般的声音 | |
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130
dodged
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| v.闪躲( dodge的过去式和过去分词 )；回避 | |
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131
chuckled
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| 轻声地笑( chuckle的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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132
outraged
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| a.震惊的，义愤填膺的 | |
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133
thumped
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| v.重击， （指心脏）急速跳动( thump的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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134
labored
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| adj.吃力的，谨慎的v.努力争取(for)( labor的过去式和过去分词 )；苦干；详细分析；（指引擎）缓慢而困难地运转 | |
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135
discreet
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| adj.(言行)谨慎的；慎重的；有判断力的 | |
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136
hips
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| abbr.high impact polystyrene 高冲击强度聚苯乙烯，耐冲性聚苯乙烯n.臀部( hip的名词复数 )；[建筑学]屋脊；臀围（尺寸）；臀部…的 | |
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137
turbulence
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| n.喧嚣，狂暴，骚乱，湍流 | |
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138
whined
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| v.哀号( whine的过去式和过去分词 )；哀诉，诉怨 | |
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139
haven
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| n.安全的地方，避难所，庇护所 | |
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140
promising
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| adj.有希望的，有前途的 | |
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141
demure
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| adj.严肃的；端庄的 | |
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142
demurely
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| adv.装成端庄地，认真地 | |
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143
seeped
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| v.（液体）渗( seep的过去式和过去分词 )；渗透；渗出；漏出 | |
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144
persistent
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| adj.坚持不懈的，执意的；持续的 | |
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145
growl
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| v.（狗等）嗥叫，（炮等）轰鸣；n.嗥叫，轰鸣 | |
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146
croaked
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| v.呱呱地叫( croak的过去式和过去分词 )；用粗的声音说 | |
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147
aspirin
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| n.阿司匹林 | |
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148
ominous
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| adj.不祥的，不吉的，预兆的，预示的 | |
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149
racing
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| n.竞赛，赛马；adj.竞赛用的，赛马用的 | |
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150
pinpoints
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| 准确地找出或描述( pinpoint的第三人称单数 )； 为…准确定位 | |
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151
roiled
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| v.搅混（液体）( roil的过去式和过去分词 )；使烦恼；使不安；使生气 | |
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152
enigma
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| n.谜，谜一样的人或事 | |
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153
pedestrians
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| n.步行者( pedestrian的名词复数 ) | |
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154
voluptuous
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| adj.肉欲的，骄奢淫逸的 | |
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155
gee
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| n.马；int.向右！前进！，惊讶时所发声音；v.向右转 | |
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156
wagons
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| n.四轮的运货马车( wagon的名词复数 )；铁路货车；小手推车 | |
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157
wagon
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| n.四轮马车，手推车，面包车；无盖运货列车 | |
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158
growling
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| n.吠声, 咆哮声 v.怒吠, 咆哮, 吼 | |
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159
Ford
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| n.浅滩，水浅可涉处；v.涉水，涉过 | |
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160
gnomes
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| n.矮子( gnome的名词复数 )；侏儒；（尤指金融市场上搞投机的）银行家；守护神 | |
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161
smuggled
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| 水货 | |
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162
swapping
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| 交换，交换技术 | |
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163
camouflage
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| n./v.掩饰，伪装 | |
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164
iceberg
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| n.冰山，流冰，冷冰冰的人 | |
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165
lettuce
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| n.莴苣；生菜 | |
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166
squinting
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| 斜视( squint的现在分词 )； 眯着眼睛； 瞟； 从小孔或缝隙里看 | |
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167
malevolent
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| adj.有恶意的，恶毒的 | |
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168
vainglorious
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| adj.自负的；夸大的 | |
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169
halfway
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| adj.中途的，不彻底的，部分的；adv.半路地，在中途，在半途 | |
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170
relentless
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| adj.残酷的，不留情的，无怜悯心的 | |
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171
corpses
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| n.死尸，尸体( corpse的名词复数 ) | |
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172
supplicate
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| v.恳求；adv.祈求地，哀求地，恳求地 | |
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173
alimentary
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| adj.饮食的，营养的 | |
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174
vented
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| 表达，发泄（感情，尤指愤怒）( vent的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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175
lewd
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| adj.淫荡的 | |
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176
buckle
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| n.扣子，带扣；v.把...扣住，由于压力而弯曲 | |
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177
loam
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| n.沃土 | |
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178
overflowing
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| n. 溢出物,溢流 adj. 充沛的，充满的 动词overflow的现在分词形式 | |
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179
wary
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| adj.谨慎的，机警的，小心的 | |
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180
doffing
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| n.下筒，落纱v.脱去，（尤指）脱帽( doff的现在分词 ) | |
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181
forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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182
unaware
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| a.不知道的，未意识到的 | |
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183
spoke
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| n.（车轮的）辐条；轮辐；破坏某人的计划；阻挠某人的行动 v.讲，谈（speak的过去式）；说；演说；从某种观点来说 | |
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184
deliberately
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| adv.审慎地；蓄意地；故意地 | |
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185
quarry
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| n.采石场；v.采石；费力地找 | |
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186
chunks
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| 厚厚的一块( chunk的名词复数 )； （某物）相当大的数量或部分 | |
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187
scattered
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| adj.分散的，稀疏的；散步的；疏疏落落的 | |
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188
ivy
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| n.常青藤，常春藤 | |
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189
afflicted
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| 使受痛苦，折磨( afflict的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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190
geographical
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| adj.地理的；地区(性)的 | |
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191
constrained
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| adj.束缚的,节制的 | |
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192
seafood
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| n.海产食品，海味，海鲜 | |
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193
ripened
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| v.成熟，使熟( ripen的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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194
rectified
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| [医]矫正的，调整的 | |
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195
disorder
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| n.紊乱，混乱；骚动，骚乱；疾病，失调 | |
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196
automobiles
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| n.汽车( automobile的名词复数 ) | |
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197
vistas
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| 长条形景色( vista的名词复数 )； 回顾； 展望； （未来可能发生的）一系列情景 | |
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198
shrimp
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| n.虾，小虾；矮小的人 | |
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199
promenade
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| n./v.散步 | |
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200
rimmed
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| adj.有边缘的，有框的v.沿…边缘滚动；给…镶边 | |
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201
rhinestones
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| n.莱茵石，人造钻石( rhinestone的名词复数 ) | |
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202
jaguar
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| n.美洲虎 | |
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203
sleek
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| adj.光滑的，井然有序的；v.使光滑，梳拢 | |
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204
fully
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| adv.完全地，全部地，彻底地；充分地 | |
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205
immortal
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| adj.不朽的；永生的，不死的；神的 | |
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206
freshman
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| n.大学一年级学生(可兼指男女) | |
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207
shrugged
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| vt.耸肩（shrug的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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208
diesels
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| 柴油( diesel的名词复数 )； 柴油机机车（或船等） | |
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209
hood
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| n.头巾，兜帽，覆盖；v.罩上，以头巾覆盖 | |
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210
hooded
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| adj.戴头巾的；有罩盖的；颈部因肋骨运动而膨胀的 | |
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211
bunk
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| n.(车、船等倚壁而设的)铺位；废话 | |
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212
lulled
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| vt.使镇静，使安静（lull的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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213
regale
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| v.取悦，款待 | |
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214
chatter
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| vi.／n.喋喋不休；短促尖叫；(牙齿)打战 | |
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215
coveted
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| adj.令人垂涎的；垂涎的，梦寐以求的v.贪求，觊觎(covet的过去分词)；垂涎；贪图 | |
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216
dressing
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| n.(食物)调料；包扎伤口的用品，敷料 | |
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217
raves
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| n.狂欢晚会( rave的名词复数 )v.胡言乱语( rave的第三人称单数 )；愤怒地说；咆哮；痴心地说 | |
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218
guts
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| v.狼吞虎咽，贪婪地吃，飞碟游戏（比赛双方每组5人，相距15码，互相掷接飞碟）；毁坏（建筑物等）的内部( gut的第三人称单数 )；取出…的内脏n.勇气( gut的名词复数 )；内脏；消化道的下段；肠 | |
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219
exhausted
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| adj.极其疲惫的，精疲力尽的 | |
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220
morose
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| adj.脾气坏的，不高兴的 | |
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221
streak
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| n.条理，斑纹，倾向，少许，痕迹；v.加条纹，变成条纹，奔驰，快速移动 | |
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222
caressingly
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| 爱抚地，亲切地 | |
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223
bumper
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| n.(汽车上的)保险杠；adj.特大的，丰盛的 | |
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224
shudder
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| v.战粟，震动，剧烈地摇晃；n.战粟，抖动 | |
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225
greasy
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| adj. 多脂的，油脂的 | |
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226
vomit
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| v.呕吐，作呕；n.呕吐物，吐出物 | |
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227
affected
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| adj.不自然的，假装的 | |
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228
hack
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| n.劈，砍，出租马车；v.劈，砍，干咳 | |
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229
constellations
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| n.星座( constellation的名词复数 )；一群杰出人物；一系列（相关的想法、事物）；一群（相关的人） | |
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230
touching
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| adj.动人的，使人感伤的 | |
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231
ambled
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| v.（马）缓行( amble的过去式和过去分词 )；从容地走，漫步 | |
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232
aisles
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| n. (席位间的)通道, 侧廊 | |
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233
tacking
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| （帆船）抢风行驶，定位焊[铆]紧钉 | |
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234
witty
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| adj.机智的，风趣的 | |
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235
passionate
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| adj.热情的，热烈的，激昂的，易动情的，易怒的，性情暴躁的 | |
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236
tug
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| v.用力拖(或拉)；苦干；n.拖；苦干；拖船 | |
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237
descended
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| a.为...后裔的，出身于...的 | |
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238
conned
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| adj.被骗了v.指挥操舵( conn的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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239
dangling
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| 悬吊着( dangle的现在分词 )； 摆动不定； 用某事物诱惑…； 吊胃口 | |
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240
swooped
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| 俯冲，猛冲( swoop的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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241
swoop
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| n.俯冲，攫取；v.抓取，突然袭击 | |
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242
spotlights
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| n.聚光灯（的光）( spotlight的名词复数 )；公众注意的中心v.聚光照明( spotlight的第三人称单数 )；使公众注意，使突出醒目 | |
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243
watts
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| （电力计量单位）瓦，瓦特( watt的名词复数 ) | |
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244
shrieking
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| v.尖叫( shriek的现在分词 ) | |
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245
blues
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| n.抑郁，沮丧；布鲁斯音乐 | |
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246
mooring
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| n.停泊处；系泊用具，系船具；下锚v.停泊，系泊（船只）(moor的现在分词) | |
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247
repel
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| v.击退，抵制，拒绝，排斥 | |
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248
Augmented
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| adj.增音的 动词augment的过去式和过去分词形式 | |
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249
clobber
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| v.打垮 | |
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250
bass
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| n.男低音(歌手)；低音乐器；低音大提琴 | |
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251
flopped
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| v.（指书、戏剧等）彻底失败( flop的过去式和过去分词 )；（因疲惫而）猛然坐下；（笨拙地、不由自主地或松弛地）移动或落下；砸锅 | |
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252
onset
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| n.进攻，袭击，开始，突然开始 | |
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253
deserted
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| adj.荒芜的，荒废的，无人的，被遗弃的 | |
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254
spotted
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| adj.有斑点的，斑纹的，弄污了的 | |
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255
abruptly
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| adv.突然地，出其不意地 | |
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256
sneaked
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| v.潜行( sneak的过去式和过去分词 )；偷偷溜走；（儿童向成人）打小报告；告状 | |
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257
galley
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| n.（飞机或船上的）厨房单层甲板大帆船；军舰舰长用的大划艇； | |
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258
primitive
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| adj.原始的；简单的；n.原(始)人，原始事物 | |
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259
welder
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| n电焊工 | |
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260
bastards
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| 私生子( bastard的名词复数 )； 坏蛋； 讨厌的事物； 麻烦事 （认为别人走运或不幸时说）家伙 | |
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261
phantom
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| n.幻影，虚位，幽灵；adj.错觉的，幻影的，幽灵的 | |
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262
deported
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| v.将…驱逐出境( deport的过去式和过去分词 )；举止 | |
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263
catching
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| adj.易传染的，有魅力的，迷人的，接住 | |
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264
knuckles
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| n.（指人）指关节( knuckle的名词复数 )；（指动物）膝关节，踝v.（指人）指关节( knuckle的第三人称单数 )；（指动物）膝关节，踝 | |
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265
reset
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| v.重新安排，复位；n.重新放置；重放之物 | |
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266
pallid
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| adj.苍白的，呆板的 | |
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267
hunch
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| n.预感，直觉 | |
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268
prodigal
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| adj.浪费的，挥霍的，放荡的 | |
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269
eels
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| abbr. 电子发射器定位系统（=electronic emitter location system） | |
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270
premature
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| adj.比预期时间早的；不成熟的，仓促的 | |
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271
complexion
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| n.肤色；情况，局面；气质，性格 | |
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272
vocal
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| adj.直言不讳的；嗓音的；n.[pl.]声乐节目 | |
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273
hysterically
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| ad. 歇斯底里地 | |
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274
slab
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| n.平板，厚的切片；v.切成厚板，以平板盖上 | |
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275
disaffected
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| adj.（政治上）不满的，叛离的 | |
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276
sullen
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| adj.愠怒的，闷闷不乐的，(天气等)阴沉的 | |
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277
aphelion
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| n.远日点；远核点 | |
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278
incompetent
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| adj.无能力的，不能胜任的 | |
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279
babbled
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| v.喋喋不休( babble的过去式和过去分词 )；作潺潺声（如流水）；含糊不清地说话；泄漏秘密 | |
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280
salute
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| vi.行礼，致意，问候，放礼炮；vt.向…致意，迎接，赞扬；n.招呼，敬礼，礼炮 | |
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281
mattress
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| n.床垫，床褥 | |
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282
transit
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| n.经过，运输；vt.穿越，旋转；vi.越过 | |
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283
elevation
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| n.高度；海拔；高地；上升；提高 | |
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284
underneath
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| adj.在...下面，在...底下；adv.在下面 | |
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285
vice
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| n.坏事；恶习；[pl.]台钳，老虎钳；adj.副的 | |
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286
mattresses
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| 褥垫，床垫( mattress的名词复数 ) | |
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287
gashed
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| v.划伤，割破( gash的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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288
frayed
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| adj.磨损的v.（使布、绳等）磨损，磨破( fray的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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289
rendering
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| n.表现，描写 | |
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290
notably
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| adv.值得注意地，显著地，尤其地，特别地 | |
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291
strand
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| vt.使（船）搁浅，使（某人）困于（某地） | |
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292
affluent
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| adj.富裕的，富有的，丰富的，富饶的 | |
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293
bums
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| n. 游荡者，流浪汉，懒鬼，闹饮，屁股 adj. 没有价值的，不灵光的，不合理的 vt. 令人失望，乞讨 vi. 混日子，以乞讨为生 | |
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294
awakened
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| v.（使）醒( awaken的过去式和过去分词 )；（使）觉醒；弄醒；（使）意识到 | |
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295
rattle
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| v.飞奔，碰响；激怒；n.碰撞声；拨浪鼓 | |
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296
raving
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| adj.说胡话的；疯狂的，怒吼的；非常漂亮的；令人醉心[痴心]的v.胡言乱语(rave的现在分词)n.胡话；疯话adv.胡言乱语地；疯狂地 | |
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297
appreciative
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| adj.有鉴赏力的，有眼力的；感激的 | |
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298
clobbering
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| v.狠揍， （不停）猛打( clobber的现在分词 )；彻底击败 | |
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299
persistence
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| n.坚持，持续，存留 | |
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300
aloof
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| adj.远离的；冷淡的，漠不关心的 | |
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301
alligators
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| n.短吻鳄( alligator的名词复数 ) | |
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302
shrieked
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| v.尖叫( shriek的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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303
discomfort
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| n.不舒服，不安，难过，困难，不方便 | |
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304
suffocation
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| n.窒息 | |
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305
screwdriver
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| n.螺丝起子；伏特加橙汁鸡尾酒 | |
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306
delirious
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| adj.不省人事的，神智昏迷的 | |
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307
plausible
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| adj.似真实的，似乎有理的，似乎可信的 | |
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308
graveyard
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| n.坟场 | |
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309
exquisite
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| adj.精美的；敏锐的；剧烈的，感觉强烈的 | |
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310
braced
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| adj.拉牢的v.支住( brace的过去式和过去分词 )；撑牢；使自己站稳；振作起来 | |
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311
metallic
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| adj.金属的；金属制的；含金属的；产金属的；像金属的 | |
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312
mole
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| n.胎块；痣；克分子 | |
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313
peeking
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| v.很快地看( peek的现在分词 )；偷看；窥视；微露出 | |
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314
wreaking
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| 诉诸（武力），施行（暴力），发（脾气）( wreak的现在分词 ) | |
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315
havoc
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| n.大破坏，浩劫，大混乱，大杂乱 | |
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316
scouts
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| 侦察员[机，舰]( scout的名词复数 )； 童子军； 搜索； 童子军成员 | |
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317
overcast
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| adj.阴天的，阴暗的，愁闷的；v.遮盖，（使）变暗，包边缝；n.覆盖，阴天 | |
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318
dismal
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| adj.阴沉的，凄凉的，令人忧郁的，差劲的 | |
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319
collapsed
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| adj.倒塌的 | |
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320
shimmered
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| v.闪闪发光，发微光( shimmer的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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321
serene
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| adj. 安详的，宁静的，平静的 | |
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322
jersey
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| n.运动衫 | |
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323
sewer
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| n.排水沟，下水道 | |
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324
conscientious
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| adj.审慎正直的，认真的，本着良心的 | |
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