In which Profane1 returns to street level
Women had always happened to Profane the schlemihl like accidents: broken shoelaces, dropped dishes, pins in new shirts. Fina was no exception. Profane had figured at first that he was only the disembodied object of a corporal work of mercy. That, in the company of innumerable small and wounded animals, bums4 on the street, near-dying and lost to God, he was only another means to grace or indulgence for Fina.
But as usual he was wrong. His first indication came with the cheerless celebration Angel and Geronimo staged following his first eight hours of alligator5 hunting. They had all been on a night shift, and got back to the Mendozas around 5 A.M. "Put on a suit," said Angel.
"I don't have a suit," Profane said.
They gave him one of Angel's. It was too small and he felt ridiculous. "All I want to do," he said, "really, is sleep."
"Sleep in the daytime," Geronimo said, "ho-ho. You crazy, man. We are going out after some cono."
Fina came in all warm and sleepy-eyed; heard they were holding a party, wanted to tag along. She worked 8 to 4:30 as a secretary but she had sick leave coming. Angel got all embarrassed. This sort of put his sister in the class of cono. Geronimo suggested calling up Dolores and Pilar, two girls they knew. Girls are different from cono. Angel brightened.
The six of them started at an after-hours club up near 125th Street, drinking Gallo wine with ice in it. A small group, vibes and rhythm, played listlessly in one corner. These musicians had been to high school with Angel, Fina and Geronimo. During the breaks they came over and sat at the table. They were drunk and threw pieces of ice at each other. Everybody talked in Spanish and Profane responded in what Italo-American he'd heard around the house as a kid. There was about 10 per cent communication but nobody cared: Profane was only guest of honor.
Soon Fina's eyes changed from sleepy to shiny from wine, and she talked less and spent more of her time smiling at Profane. This made him uncomfortable. It turned out Delgado the vibes player was going to be married the next day and having second thoughts. A violent and pointless argument developed about marriage, pro2 and con6. While everybody else was screaming, Fina leaned toward Profane till their foreheads touched and whispered, "Benito," her breath light and acid with wine.
"Josephine," he nodded, pleasant. He was getting a headache. She continued to lean against his head until the next set when Geronimo grabbed her and they went off to dance. Dolores, fat and amiable9, asked Profane to dance. "Non posso ballare," he said. "No puedo bailar," she corrected him and yanked him to his feet. The world became filled with the sounds of inanimate calluses slapping inanimate goatskin, felt hitting metal, sticks knocking together. Of course, he couldn't dance. His shoes kept getting in the way. Dolores, halfway10 across the room, didn't notice. Commotion11 broke out at the door and half a dozen teenagers wearing Playboy jackets invaded. The music bonged and clattered12 on. Profane kicked off his shoes - old black loafers of Geronimo's - and concentrated on dancing in his socks. After awhile Dolores was there again and five seconds later a spike13 heel came down square in the middle of his foot. He was too tired to yell. He limped off to a table in the corner, crawled under it and went to sleep. The next thing he knew there was sunlight in his eyes. They were carrying him down Amsterdam Avenue like pallbearers, all chanting, "Mierda. Mierda. Mierda . . ."
He lost count of all the bars they visited. He became drunk. His worst memory was of being alone with Fina somewhere in a telephone booth. They were discussing love. He couldn't remember what he'd said. The only other thing he remembered between then and the time he woke up - in Union Square at sundown, blindfolded14 by a raging hangover and covered by a comforter of chilly15 pigeons who looked like vultures - was same sort of unpleasantness with the police after Angel and Geronimo had tried to smuggle16 parts of a toilet under their coats out of the men's room in a bar on Second Avenue.
In the next few days Profane came to tally17 his time in reverse or schlemihl's light: time on the job as escape, time exposed to any possibility of getting involved with Fina as assbreaking, wageless labor18.
What had he said in that phone booth? The question met him at the end of every shift, day, night or swing, like an evil fog that hovered19 over whatever manhole he happened to climb out of. Nearly that whole day of slewfooting drunk under February's sun was a blank. He was not about to ask Fina what had happened. There grew a mutual20 embarrassment21 between them, as if they'd been to bed after all.
"Benito," she said one night, "how come we never talk."
"Wha," said Profane, who was watching a Randolph Scott movie on television. "Wha. I talk to you."
"Sure. Nice dress. How about more coffee. I got me another cocodrilo today. You know what I mean."
He knew what she meant. Now here was Randolph Scott: cool, imperturbable, keeping his trap shut and only talking when he had to - and then saying the right things and not running off haphazard22 and inefficient23 at the mouth - and here on the other side of the phosphor screen was Profane, who knew that one wrong word would put him closer than he cared to be to street level, and whose vocabulary it seemed was made up of nothing but wrong words.
"Why don't we go to a movie or something," she said.
"This here," he answered, "is a good movie. Randolph Scott is this U.S. marshal and that sheriff, there he goes now, is getting paid off by the gang and all he does all day long is play fan-tan with a widow who lives up the hill."
She withdrew after a while, sad and pouting24.
Why? Why did she have to behave like he was a human being. Why couldn't he be just an object of mercy. What did Fina have to go pushing it for? What did she want - which was a stupid question. She was a restless girl, this Josephine: warm and viscous-moving, ready to come in a flying machine or anyplace else.
But curious, he decided25 to ask Angel.
"How do I know," Angel said. "It's her business. She don't like anybody in the office. They are all maricon, she says. Except for Mr. Winsome26 the boss, but he's married so he's out."
"What does she want to be," Profane said, "a career girl? What does your mother think?"
"My mother thinks everybody should get married: me, Fina, Geronimo. She'll be after your ass7 soon. Fina doesn't want anybody. You, Geronimo, the Playboys. She doesn't want. Nobody knows what she wants."
"Playboys," Profane said. "Wha."
It came out then that Fina was spiritual leader or Den3 Mother of this youth gang. She had learned in school about a saint, called Joan of Arc, who went around doing the same thing for armies who were more or less chicken and no good in a rumble27. The Playboys, Angel felt, were pretty much the same way.
Profane knew better than to ask whether she was giving them sexual comfort too. He didn't have to ask. He knew this was another work of mercy. The mother to the troops bit, he guessed - not knowing anything about women - was a harmless way to be what maybe every girl wants to be, a camp follower28. With the advantage that here she was not a follower but a leader. How many in the Playboys? Nobody knew, Angel said. Maybe hundreds. They all were crazy for Fina, in a spiritual way. In return she had to put out nothing but charity and comfort, which she was only too glad to do, punchy with grace already.
The Playboys were a strangely exhausted29 group. Mercenaries, many of them lived in Fina's neighborhood; but unlike other gangs they had no turf of their own. They were spread out all over the city; having no common geographical30 or cultural ground, they put their arsenal31 and streetfighting prowess at the disposal of any interested party who might be considering a rumble. The Youth Board had never taken a count on them: they were everywhere, but as Angel had mentioned, chicken. The main advantage in having them on your side was psychological. They cultivated a carefully sinister32 image: coal-black velvet33 jackets with the clan34 name discreetly lettered small and bloody35 on the back; faces pale and soulless as the other side of the night (and you felt that was where they lived: for they would appear suddenly across the street from you and keep pace for a while, and then vanish again as if back behind some invisible curtain); all of them affecting prowling walks, hungry eyes, feral mouths.
Profane didn't meet them in any social way until the Feast of San' Ercole dei Rinoceronti, which comes on the Ides of March, and is celebrated downtown in the neighborhood called Little Italy. High over all Mulberry Street that night soared arches of light bulbs, arranged in receding36 sets of whorls, each spanning the street, shining clear to the horizon because the air was so windless. Under the lights were jury-rigged stalls for penny-toss, bingo, pick up the plastic duck and win a prize. Every few steps were stands for zeppole, beer, sausage-pepper sandwiches. Behind it all was music from two bandstands, one at the downtown end of the street and one halfway along. Popular songs, operas. Not too loud in the cold night: as if confined only to the area below the lights. Chinese and Italian residents sat out on the stoops as if it were summer, watching the crowds, the lights, the smoke from the zeppole stands which rose lazy and unturbulent up toward the lights but disappeared before it reached them.
Profane, Angel and Geronimo were out prowling for cono. It was Thursday night, tomorrow - according to the nimble calculations of Geronimo they were working not for Zeitsuss but for the U. S. Government, since Friday is one-fifth of the week and the government takes one-fifth of your check for withholding37 tax. The beauty of Geronimo's scheme was that it didn't have to be Friday but could be any day - or days - in the week depressing enough to make you feel it would be a breach38 of loyalty39 if the time were dedicated40 to good old Zeitsuss. Profane had got into this way of thinking, and along with parties in the daytime and a rotating shift system devised by Bung the foreman whereby you didn't know till the day before which hours you would be working the next, it put him on a weird41 calendar which was not ruled off into neat squares at all but more into a mosaic42 of tilted43 street-surfaces that changed position according to sunlight, streetlight, moonlight, nightlight . . .
He wasn't comfortable in this street. The people mobbing the pavement between the stalls seemed no more logical than the objects in his dream. "They don't have faces," he said to Angel.
"A lot of nice asses44, though," Angel said.
"Look, look," said Geronimo. Three jailbait, all lipstick45 and shiny-machined breast- and buttock-surfaces, stood in front of the wheel of Fortune, twitching47 and hollow-eyed.
"Benito, you speak guinea. Go tell them how about a little."
Behind them the band was playing Madame Butterfly. Non-professional, non-rehearsed.
"It isn't like it was a foreign country," Profane said.
"Geronimo is a tourist," Angel said. "He wants to go down to San Juan and live in the Caribe Hilton and ride around the city looking at puertorriquenos."
They'd been moseying slow, casing the jailbait at the wheel. Profane's foot came down on an empty beer can. He started to roll. Angel and Geronimo, flanking him, caught him by the arms about halfway down. The girls had turned around and were giggling48, the eyes mirthless, ringed in shadow.
Angel waved. "He goes weak in the knees," Geronimo purred, "when he sees beautiful girls."
The giggling got louder. Someplace else the American ensign and the geisha would be singing in Italian to the music behind them; and how was that for a tourist's confusion of tongues? The girls moved away and the three fell into step beside them. They bought beer and took over an unoccupied stoop.
"Benny here talks guinea," said Angel. "Say something in guinea, hey."
"Sfacim," Profane said. The girls got all shocked.
"Your friend is a nasty mouth," one of them said.
"I don't want to sit with any nasty mouth," said the girl sitting next to Profane. She got up, flipped49 her butt46 and moved down into the street, where she stood hipshot and stared at Profane out of her dark eyeholes.
"That's his name," Geronimo said, "is all. And I am Peter O'Leary and this here is Chain Ferguson." Peter O'Leary being an old school chum who was now at a seminary upstate studying to be a priest. He'd been so clean-living in high school that Geronimo and his friends always used him for an alias whenever there might be any trouble. God knew how many had been deflowered, hustled50 off of for beer or slugged in his name. Chain Ferguson was the hero of a western they'd been watching on the Mendoza TV the night before.
"Benny Sfacim is really your name?" said the one in the street.
"Sfacimento." In Italian it meant destruction or decay. "You didn't let me finish."
"That's all right then," she said. "That isn't bad at all." Bet your shiny, twitching ass, he thought, all unhappy. The other could knock her up higher than those arches of light. She couldn't be more than fourteen but she knew already that men are drifters. Good for her. Bedmates and all the sfacim they have yet to get rid of drift on, and if some stays with her and swells into a little drifter who'll go someday too, why she wouldn't like that too much, he reckoned. He wasn't angry with her. He looked that thought at her, but who knew what went on in those eyes? They seemed to absorb all the light in the street: from flames beneath sausage grills51, from the bridges of light bulbs, windows of neighborhood apartments, glowing ends of De Nobili cigars, flashing gold and silver of instruments on the bandstand, even light from the eyes of what innocent there were among the tourists:
The eyes of a New York woman [he started to sing]
Are the twilit side of the moon,
Nobody knows what goes on back there
Where it's always late afternoon.
Under the lights of Broadway,
Far from the lights of home,
With a smile as sweet as a candy cane52
And a heart all plated with chrome.
Do they ever see the wandering bums
And the boys with no place to go,
And the drifter who cried for an ugly girl
Dead as the leaves in Union Square,
The eyes of a New York woman
Are never going to cry for me.
Are never going to cry for me.
The girl on the sidewalk twitched55. "It doesn't have any beat." It was a song of the Great Depression. They were singing it in 1932, the year Profane was born. He didn't know where he'd heard it. If it had a beat it was the beat of beans thumping56 into an old bucket someplace down in Jersey57. Some WPA pick against the pavement, some bum-laden freight car on a downgrade hitting the gaps between the rails every 39 feet. She'd have been born in 1942. Wars don't have my beat. They're all noise.
Zeppole man across the street began to sing. Angel and Geronimo started to sing. The band across the street acquired an Italian tenor58 from the neighborhood:
Non dimenticar, the t'i'ho voluto tanto bene,
Ho saputo amar; non dimenticar . . .
And the cold street seemed all at once to've bloomed into singing. He wanted to take the girl by the fingers, lead her to someplace out of the wind, anyplace warm, pivot59 her back on those poor ballbearing heels and show her his name was Sfacim after all. It was a desire he got, off and on, to be cruel and feel at the same time sorrow so big it filled him, leaked out his eyes and the holes in his shoes to make one big pool of human sorrow on the street, which had everything spilled on it from beer to blood, but very little compassion60. "I'm Lucille," the girl said to Profane. The other two introduced themselves, Lucille came back up the stoop to sit next to Profane, Geronimo went off for more beer. Angel continued to sing. "What do you guys do," Lucille said.
I tell tall stories to girls I want to screw, Profane thought. He scratched his armpit. "Kill alligators61," he said.
"Wha."
He told her about the alligators; Angel, who had a fertile imagination too, added detail, color. Together on the stoop they hammered together a myth. Because it wasn't born from fear of thunder, dreams, astonishment62 at how the crops kept dying after harvest and coming up again every spring, or anything else very permanent, only a temporary interest, a spur-of-the-moment tumescence, it was a myth rickety and transient as the bandstands and the sausage-pepper of Mulberry Street.
Geronimo came back with beer. They sat and drank beer and watched people and told sewer63 stories: Every once in a while the girls would want to sing. Soon enough they became kittenish. Lucille jumped up and pranced64 away. "Catch me," she said.
"Oh God," said Profane.
"You have to chase her," said one of her friends. Angel and Geronimo were laughing.
"I have to wha," said Profane. The other two girls, annoyed that Angel and Geronimo were laughing, arose and went running off after Lucille.
"Chase them?" Geronimo said.
Angel belched65. "Sweat out some of this beer." They got off the stoop unsteadily and fell, side by side, into a little jog-trot. "Where'd they go," Profane said.
"Over there." It seemed after a while they were knocking people over. Somebody swung a punch at Geronimo and missed. They dived under an empty stand, single file, and found themselves out on the sidewalk. The girls were loping along, up ahead. Geronimo was breathing hard. They followed the girls, who cut off on a side street. By the time they got around the corner there wasn't girl one to be seen. There followed a confused quarter-hour of wandering along the streets bordering Mulberry, looking under parked cars, behind telephone poles, in back of stoops.
"Nobody here," said Angel.
There was music on Mott Street. Coming out of a basement. They investigated. A sign outside said SOCIAL CLUB. BEER. DANCING. They went down, opened a door and there sure enough was a small beer bar set up in one corner, a jukebox in another and fifteen or twenty curious-looking juvenile delinquents66. The boys wore Ivy67 League suits, the girls wore cocktail dresses. There was rock 'n' roll on the jukebox. The greasy68 heads and cantilever69 brassieres were still there, but the atmosphere was refined, like a country club dance.
The three of them just stood. Profane saw Lucille after a while bopping in the middle of the floor with somebody who looked like a chairman of the board of some delinquent's corporation. Over his shoulder she stuck out her tongue at Profane, who looked away. "I don't like it," he heard somebody say, "fuzzwise. Why don't we send it through Central Park and see if anybody rapes71 it."
He happened to glance off to the left. There was a coat room. Hanging on a row of hooks, neat and uniform, padded shoulders falling symmetrical either side of the hooks, were two dozen black velvet jackets with red lettering on the back. Ding dang, thought Profane: Playboy country.
Angel and Geronimo had been looking the same way. "Do you think we should maybe," Angel wondered. Lucille was beckoning72 to Profane from a doorway across the dance floor.
"Wait a minute," he said. He weaved between the couples on the floor. Nobody noticed him.
"What took you so long?" She had him by the hand. It was dark in the room. He walked into a pool table. "Here," she whispered. She was lying spread on the green felt. Comer pockets, side pockets, and Lucille. "There are some funny things I could say," he began.
"They've all been said," she whispered. In the dim light from the doorway, her fringed eyes seemed part of the felt. It was as if he were looking through her face to the surface of the table. Skirt raised, mouth open, teeth all white, sharp, ready to sink into whatever soft part of him got that close, oh she would surely haunt him. He unzipped his fly and started to climb up on the pool table.
There was a sudden scream from the next room, somebody knocked over the jukebox, the lights went out. "Wha," she said sitting up.
"Rumble?" Profane said. She came flying off the table, knocked him over. He lay on the floor, his head against a cue rack. Her sudden movement dislodged an avalanche73 of pool balls on his stomach. "Dear God," he said, covering his head. Her high heels tapped away, fading with distance, over the empty dance floor. He opened his eyes. A pool ball lay even with his eyes. All he could see was a white circle, and this black 8 inside it. He started to laugh. Outside somewhere he thought he heard Angel yelling for help. Profane creaked to his feet, zipped his fly up again, blundered out through the darkness. He got out to the street after tripping over two folding chairs and the cord to the jukebox.
Crouched74 behind the brownstone balusters of the front stoop he saw a great mob of Playboys milling around in the street. Girls were sitting on the stoop and lining75 the sidewalk, cheering. In the middle of the street Lucille's late partner the board chairman was going round and round with a huge Negro in a jacket that read BOP KINGS. A few other Bop Kings were mixing it up with the Playboys at the fringes of the crowd. Jurisdictional dispute, Profane figured. He couldn't see either Angel or Geronimo. "Somebody is going to get burned," said a girl who sat almost directly above him on the steps.
Like tinsel suddenly tossed on a Christmas tree, the merry twinkling of switchblades, tire irons and filed-down garrison76 belt buckles77 appeared among the crowd in the street. The girls on the stoop drew breath in concert through bared teeth. They watched eagerly; as if each had kicked in on a pool for who'd draw first blood.
It never happened, whatever they were waiting for: not tonight. Out of nowhere Fina, St. Fina of the Playboys, came walking her sexy walk, in among fangs78, talons79, tusks80. The air turned summer-mild, a boys' choir81 on a brilliant mauve cloud came floating over from the direction of Canal Street singing O Salutaris Hostia; the board chairman and the Bop King clasped arms in token of friendship as their followers82 stacked arms and embraced; and Fina was borne up by a swarm83 of pneumatically fat, darling cherubs84, to hover over the sudden peace she'd created, beaming, serene85.
Profane gaped86, snuffled, and slunk away. For the next week or so he pondered on Fina and the Playboys and presently began to worry in earnest. There was nothing so special about the gang, punks are punks. He was sure any love between her and the Playboys was for the moment Christian87, unworldly and proper. But how long was that going to go on? How long could Fina herself hold out? The minute her horny boys caught a glimpse of the wanton behind the saint, the black lace slip beneath the surplice, Fina could find herself on the receiving end of a gang bang, having in a way asked for it. She was overdue88 now.
One evening he came into the bathroom, mattress89 slung90 over his back. He'd been watching an ancient Tom Mix movie on television. Fina was lying in the bathtub, seductive. No water, no clothes - just Fina.
"Now look," he said.
"Benny, I'm cherry. I want it to be you." She said it defiantly91. For a minute it seemed plausible92. After all, if it wasn't him it might be that whole godforsaken wolf pack. He glanced at himself in the mirror. Fat. Pig-pouches around the eyes. Why did she want it to be him?
"Why me," he said. "You save it for the guy you marry."
"Who wants to get married," she said.
"Look, what is Sister Maria Annunziata going to think. Here you been doing all these nice things for me, for those unfortunate delinquents down the street. You want to get that all scratched off the books?" Who'd have thought Profane would ever be arguing like this? Her eyes burned, she twisted slow and sexy, all those tawny93 surfaces quivering like quicksand.
"No," said Profane. "Now hop94 out of there, I want to go to sleep. And don't go yelling rape70 to your brother. He believes in his sister shouldn't do any jazzing around but he knows you better."
She climbed out of the bathtub and put a robe around her. "I'm sorry," she said. He threw the mattress in the tub, threw himself on top of it and lit a cigarette. She turned off the light and shut the door behind her.
II
Profane's worries about Fina turned real and ugly, soon enough. Spring came: quiet, unspectacular and after many false starts: hailstorms and high winds dovetailed with days of unwintry peace. The alligators living in the sewers had dwindled95 to a handful. Zeitsuss found himself with more hunters than he needed, so Profane, Angel and Geronimo started working part-time.
More and more Profane was coming to feel a stranger to the world downstairs. It had probably happened as imperceptibly as the fall-off in the alligator population; but somehow it began to look like he was losing contact with a circle of friends. What am I, he yelled at himself, a St. Francis for alligators? I don't talk to them, I don't even like them. I shoot them.
Your ass, answered his devil's advocate. How many times have they come waddling96 up to you out of the darkness, like friends, looking for you. Did it ever occur to you they want to be shot?
He thought back to the one he'd chased solo almost to the East River, through Fairing's Parish. It had lagged, let him catch up. Had been looking for it. It occurred to him that somewhere - when he was drunk, too horny to think straight, tired - he'd signed a contract above the paw-prints of what were now alligator ghosts. Almost as if there had been this agreement, a covenant97, Profane giving death, the alligators giving him employment: tit for tat. He needed them and if they needed him at all it was because in some prehistoric98 circuit of the alligator brain they knew that as babies they'd been only another consumer-object, along with the wallets and pocketbooks of what might have been parents or kin8, and all the junk of the world's Macy's. And the soul's passage down the toilet and into the underworld was only a temporary peace-in-tension, borrowed time till they would have to return to being falsely animated99 kids' toys. Of course they wouldn't like it. Would want to go back to what they'd been; and the most perfect shape of that was dead - what else? - to be gnawed100 into exquisite101 rococo102 by rat-artisans, eroded103 to an antique bone-finish by the holy water of the Parish, tinted104 to phosphorescence by whatever had made that one alligator's sepulchre so bright that night.
When he went down for his now four hours a day he talked to them sometimes. It annoyed his partners. He had a close call one night when a gator turned and attacked. The tail caught the flashlight man a glancing blow off his left leg. Profane yelled at him to get out of the way and pumped all five rounds in a cascade105 of re-echoing blasts, square in the alligator's teeth. "It's all right," his partner said. "I can walk on it." Profane wasn't listening. He was standing106 by the headless corpse107, watching a steady stream of sewage wash its life blood out to one of the rivers - he'd lost sense of direction. "Baby," he told the corpse, "you didn't play it right. You don't fight back. That's not in the contract." Bung the foreman lectured him once or twice about this talking to alligators, how it set a bad example for the Patrol. Profane said sure, OK, and remembered after that to say what he was coming to believe he had to say under his breath.
Finally, one night in mid-April, he admitted to himself what he'd been trying for a week not to think about: that he and the Patrol as functioning units of the Sewer Department had about had it.
Fina had been aware that there weren't many alligators left and the three of them would soon be jobless. She came upon Profane one evening by the TV set. He was watching a rerun of The Great Train Robbery.
"Benito," she said, "you ought to start looking around for another job."
Profane agreed. She told him her boss, Winsome of Outlandish Records, was looking for a clerk and she could get him an interview.
"Me," Profane said, "I'm not a clerk. I'm not smart enough and I don't go for that inside work too much." She told him people stupider than he worked as clerks. She said he'd have a chance to move up, make something of himself.
A schlemihl is a schlemihl. What can you "make" out of one? What can one "make" out of himself? You reach a point, and Profane knew he'd reached it, where you know how much you can and cannot do. But every now and again he got attacks of acute optimism. "I will give it a try," he told her, "and thanks." She was grace-happy - here he had kicked her out of the bathtub and now she was turning the other cheek. He began to get lewd108 thoughts.
Next day she called up. Angel and Geronimo were on day shift, Profane was off till Friday. He lay on the floor playing pinochle with Kook, who was on the hook from school.
"Find a suit," she said. "One o'clock is your interview."
"Wha," said Profane. He'd grown fatter after these weeks of Mrs. Mendoza's cooking. Angel's suit didn't fit him any more. "Borrow one of my father's," she said, and hung up.
Old Mendoza didn't mind. The biggest suit in the closet was a George Raft model, circa mid-'30's, double-breasted, dark blue serge, padded shoulders. He put it on and borrowed a pair of shoes from Angel. On the way downtown on the subway he decided that we suffer from great temporal homesickness for the decade we were born in. Because he felt now as if he were living in some private depression days: the suit, the job with the city that would not exist after two weeks more at the most. All around him were people in new suits, millions of inanimate objects being produced brand-new every week, new cars in the streets, houses going up by the thousands all over the suburbs he had left months ago. Where was the depression? In the sphere of Benny Profane's guts109 and in the sphere of his skull110, concealed optimistically by a tight blue serge coat and a schlemihl's hopeful face.
The Outlandish office was in the Grand Central area, seventeen floors up. He sat in an anteroom full of tropical hothouse growths while the wind streamed bleak112 and heatsucking past the windows. The receptionist gave him an application to fill out. He didn't see Fina.
As he handed the completed form to the girl at the desk, a messenger came through: a Negro wearing an old suede113 jacket. He dropped a stack of interoffice mail envelopes on the desk and for a second his eyes and Profane's met.
Maybe Profane had seen him under the street or at one of the shapeups. But there was a little half-smile and a kind of half-telepathy and it was as if this messenger had brought a message to Profane too, sheathed114 to everybody but the two of them in an envelope of eyebeams touching115, that said: Who are you trying to kid? Listen to the wind.
He listened to the wind. The messenger left. "Mr. Winsome will see you in a moment," said the receptionist. Profane wandered over to the window and looked down at 42nd Street. It was as if he could see the wind, too. The suit felt wrong on him. Maybe it was doing nothing after all to conceal111 this curious depression which showed up in no stock market or year-end report. "Hey, where are you going," said the receptionist. "Changed my mind," Profane told her. Out in the hall and going down in the elevator, in the lobby and in the street he looked for the messenger, but couldn't find him. He unbuttoned the jacket of old Mendoza's suit and shuffled116 along 42nd Street, head down, straight into the wind.
Friday at the shapeup Zeitsuss, almost crying, gave them the word. From now on, only two days a week operation, only five teams for some mopping up out in Brooklyn. On the way home that evening Profane, Angel and Geronimo stopped off at a neighborhood bar on Broadway.
They stayed till near 9:30 or 10, when a few of the girls wandered in. This was on Broadway in the 80's, which is not the Broadway of Show Biz, or even a broken heart for every light on it. Uptown was a bleak district with no identity, where a heart never does anything so violent or final as break: merely gets increased tensile, compressive, shear117 loads piled on it bit by bit every day till eventually these and its own shudderings fatigue118 it.
The first wave of girls came in to get change for the evening's clients. They weren't pretty and the bartender always had a word for them. Some would be back in again near closing time to have a nightcap, whether there'd been any business or not. If they did have a customer along - usually one of the small gangsters119 around the neighborhood - the bartender would be as attentive120 and cordial as if they were young lovers, which in a way they were. And if a girl came in without having found any business all night the bartender would give her coffee with a big shot of brandy and say something about how it was raining or too cold, and not much good, he supposed, for customers. She'd usually have a last try at whoever was in the place.
Profane, Angel and Geronimo left after talking with the girls and having a few rounds at the bowling121 machine. Coming out they met Mrs. Mendoza.
"You seen your sister?" she asked Angel. "She was going to come help me shop right after work. She never did anything like this before, Angelito, I'm worried."
Kook came running up. "Dolores says she's out with the Playboys but she doesn't know where. Fina just called up and Dolores says she sounded funny." Mrs. Mendoza grabbed him by the head and asked where from this phone call, and Kook said he'd told her already, nobody knew. Profane looked toward Angel and caught Angel looking at him. When Mrs. Mendoza was gone, Angel said, "I don't like to think about it, my own sister, but if one of those little pingas tries anything, man . . ."
Profane didn't say he'd been thinking the same thing. Angel was upset enough already. But he knew Profane was thinking about a gang bang too. They both knew Fina. "We ought to find her," he said.
"They're all over the city," Geronimo said. "I know a couple of their hangouts." They decided to start at the Mott Street clubhouse. Till midnight they took subways all over the city, finding only empty clubhouses or locked doors. But as they were wandering along Amsterdam in the 60's, they heard noise around the corner.
"Jesus Christ," Geronimo said. A full-scale rumble was on. A few guns in evidence but mostly knives, lengths of pipe, garrison belts. The three skirted along the side of the street where cars were parked, and found somebody in a tweed suit hiding behind a new Lincoln and fiddling122 with the controls of a tape recorder. A sound man was up in a nearby tree, dangling microphones. The night had become cold and windy.
"Howdy," said the tweed suit. "My name is Winsome."
"My sister's boss," Angel whispered. Profane heard a scream up the street which might have been Fina. He started running. There was shooting and a lot of yelling. Five Bop Kings came running out of an alley123 ten feet ahead, into the street, Angel and Geronimo were right behind Profane. Somebody had parked a car in the middle of the street with WLIB on the radio, turned up to top volume. Close at hand they heard a belt whiz through the air and a scream of pain: but a big tree's black shadow hid whatever was happening.
They cased the street for a clubhouse. Soon they found PB and an arrow chalked on the sidewalk, the arrow pointing in toward a brownstone. They ran up the steps and saw PB chalked on the door. The door wouldn't open. Angel kicked at it a couple of times and the lock broke. Behind them the street was chaos124. A few bodies lay prostrate125 near the sidewalk. Angel ran down the hall, Profane and Geronimo behind him. Police sirens from uptown and crosstown started to converge126 on the rumble.
Angel opened a door at the end of the hall and for half a second Profane saw Fina through it lying on an old army cot, naked, hair in disarray127, smiling. Her eyes had become hollowed as Lucille's, that night on the pool table. Angel turned and showed all his teeth. "Don't come in," he said, "wait." The door closed behind him and soon they heard him hitting her.
Angel might have been satisfied only with her life, Profane didn't know how deep the code ran. He couldn't go in and stop it; didn't know if he wanted to. The police sirens had grown to a crescendo128 and suddenly cut off. Rumble was over. More than that, he suspected, was over. He said good night to Geronimo and left the brownstone, didn't turn his head to see what was happening behind him in the street.
He wouldn't go back to Mendozas', he figured. There was no more work under the street. What peace there had been was over. He had to came back to the surface, the dream-street. Soon he found a subway station, twenty minutes later he was downtown looking for a cheap mattress.
收听单词发音 |
1
profane
|
|
| adj.亵神的，亵渎的；vt.亵渎，玷污 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
2
pro
|
|
| n.赞成，赞成的意见，赞成者 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
3
den
|
|
| n.兽穴；秘密地方；安静的小房间，私室 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
4
bums
|
|
| 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 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
5
alligator
|
|
| n.短吻鳄(一种鳄鱼) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
6
con
|
|
| n.反对的观点，反对者，反对票，肺病；vt.精读，学习，默记；adv.反对地，从反面；adj.欺诈的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
7
ass
|
|
| n.驴；傻瓜，蠢笨的人 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
8
kin
|
|
| n.家族，亲属，血缘关系；adj.亲属关系的，同类的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
9
amiable
|
|
| adj.和蔼可亲的，友善的，亲切的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
10
halfway
|
|
| adj.中途的，不彻底的，部分的；adv.半路地，在中途，在半途 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
11
commotion
|
|
| n.骚动，动乱 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
12
clattered
|
|
| 发出咔哒声（clatter的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
13
spike
|
|
| n.长钉，钉鞋；v.以大钉钉牢，使...失效 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
14
blindfolded
|
|
| v.（尤指用布）挡住（某人）的视线( blindfold的过去式 )；蒙住（某人）的眼睛；使不理解；蒙骗 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
15
chilly
|
|
| adj.凉快的，寒冷的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
16
smuggle
|
|
| vt.私运；vi.走私 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
17
tally
|
|
| n.计数器，记分，一致，测量；vt.计算，记录，使一致；vi.计算，记分，一致 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
18
labor
|
|
| 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 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
19
hovered
|
|
| 鸟( hover的过去式和过去分词 )； 靠近（某事物）； （人）徘徊； 犹豫 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
20
mutual
|
|
| adj.相互的，彼此的；共同的，共有的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
21
embarrassment
|
|
| n.尴尬；使人为难的人(事物)；障碍；窘迫 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
22
haphazard
|
|
| adj.无计划的，随意的，杂乱无章的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
23
inefficient
|
|
| adj.效率低的，无效的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
24
pouting
|
|
| v.撅（嘴）( pout的现在分词 ) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
25
decided
|
|
| adj.决定了的，坚决的；明显的，明确的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
26
winsome
|
|
| n.迷人的，漂亮的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
27
rumble
|
|
| n.隆隆声；吵嚷；v.隆隆响；低沉地说 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
28
follower
|
|
| n.跟随者；随员；门徒；信徒 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
29
exhausted
|
|
| adj.极其疲惫的，精疲力尽的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
30
geographical
|
|
| adj.地理的；地区(性)的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
31
arsenal
|
|
| n.兵工厂，军械库 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
32
sinister
|
|
| adj.不吉利的，凶恶的，左边的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
33
velvet
|
|
| n.丝绒，天鹅绒；adj.丝绒制的，柔软的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
34
clan
|
|
| n.氏族，部落，宗族，家族，宗派 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
35
bloody
|
|
| adj.非常的的；流血的；残忍的；adv.很；vt.血染 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
36
receding
|
|
| 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 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
37
withholding
|
|
| 扣缴税款 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
38
breach
|
|
| n.违反，不履行；破裂；vt.冲破，攻破 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
39
loyalty
|
|
| n.忠诚，忠心 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
40
dedicated
|
|
| adj.一心一意的；献身的；热诚的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
41
weird
|
|
| adj.古怪的，离奇的；怪诞的，神秘而可怕的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
42
mosaic
|
|
| n./adj.镶嵌细工的，镶嵌工艺品的，嵌花式的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
43
tilted
|
|
| v. 倾斜的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
44
asses
|
|
| n. 驴，愚蠢的人，臀部 adv. (常用作后置)用于贬损或骂人 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
45
lipstick
|
|
| n.口红，唇膏 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
46
butt
|
|
| n.笑柄；烟蒂；枪托；臀部；v.用头撞或顶 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
47
twitching
|
|
| n.颤搐 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
48
giggling
|
|
| v.咯咯地笑( giggle的现在分词 ) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
49
flipped
|
|
| 轻弹( flip的过去式和过去分词 )； 按（开关）； 快速翻转； 急挥 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
50
hustled
|
|
| 催促（hustle的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
51
grills
|
|
| n.烤架( grill的名词复数 )；（一盘）烤肉；格板；烧烤餐馆v.烧烤( grill的第三人称单数 )；拷问，盘问 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
52
cane
|
|
| n.手杖，细长的茎，藤条；v.以杖击，以藤编制的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
53
buffalo
|
|
| n.(北美)野牛；(亚洲)水牛 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
54
graveyard
|
|
| n.坟场 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
55
twitched
|
|
| vt.& vi.（使）抽动，（使）颤动（twitch的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
56
thumping
|
|
| adj.重大的，巨大的；重击的；尺码大的；极好的adv.极端地；非常地v.重击(thump的现在分词)；狠打；怦怦地跳；全力支持 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
57
jersey
|
|
| n.运动衫 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
58
tenor
|
|
| n.男高音（歌手），次中音（乐器），要旨，大意 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
59
pivot
|
|
| v.在枢轴上转动；装枢轴，枢轴；adj.枢轴的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
60
compassion
|
|
| n.同情，怜悯 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
61
alligators
|
|
| n.短吻鳄( alligator的名词复数 ) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
62
astonishment
|
|
| n.惊奇，惊异 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
63
sewer
|
|
| n.排水沟，下水道 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
64
pranced
|
|
| v.（马）腾跃( prance的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
65
belched
|
|
| v.打嗝( belch的过去式和过去分词 )；喷出，吐出；打（嗝）；嗳（气） | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
66
delinquents
|
|
| n.（尤指青少年）有过失的人，违法的人( delinquent的名词复数 ) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
67
ivy
|
|
| n.常青藤，常春藤 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
68
greasy
|
|
| adj. 多脂的，油脂的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
69
cantilever
|
|
| n.悬梁臂；adj.采用伸臂建成的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
70
rape
|
|
| n.抢夺，掠夺，强奸；vt.掠夺，抢夺，强奸 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
71
rapes
|
|
| n.芸苔( rape的名词复数 )；强奸罪；强奸案；肆意损坏v.以暴力夺取，强夺( rape的第三人称单数 )；强奸 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
72
beckoning
|
|
| adj.引诱人的，令人心动的v.（用头或手的动作）示意，召唤( beckon的现在分词 ) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
73
avalanche
|
|
| n.雪崩，大量涌来 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
74
crouched
|
|
| v.屈膝，蹲伏( crouch的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
75
lining
|
|
| n.衬里，衬料 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
76
garrison
|
|
| n.卫戍部队；驻地，卫戍区；vt.派(兵)驻防 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
77
buckles
|
|
| 搭扣，扣环( buckle的名词复数 ) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
78
fangs
|
|
| n.（尤指狗和狼的）长而尖的牙( fang的名词复数 )；（蛇的）毒牙；罐座 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
79
talons
|
|
| n.（尤指猛禽的）爪( talon的名词复数 )；（如爪般的）手指；爪状物；锁簧尖状突出部 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
80
tusks
|
|
| n.（象等动物的）长牙( tusk的名词复数 )；獠牙；尖形物；尖头 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
81
choir
|
|
| n.唱诗班，唱诗班的席位，合唱团，舞蹈团；v.合唱 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
82
followers
|
|
| 追随者( follower的名词复数 )； 用户； 契据的附面； 从动件 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
83
swarm
|
|
| n.(昆虫)等一大群；vi.成群飞舞；蜂拥而入 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
84
cherubs
|
|
| 小天使，胖娃娃( cherub的名词复数 ) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
85
serene
|
|
| adj. 安详的，宁静的，平静的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
86
gaped
|
|
| v.目瞪口呆地凝视( gape的过去式和过去分词 )；张开，张大 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
87
Christian
|
|
| adj.基督教徒的；n.基督教徒 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
88
overdue
|
|
| adj.过期的，到期未付的；早该有的，迟到的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
89
mattress
|
|
| n.床垫，床褥 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
90
slung
|
|
| 抛( sling的过去式和过去分词 )； 吊挂； 遣送； 押往 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
91
defiantly
|
|
| adv.挑战地，大胆对抗地 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
92
plausible
|
|
| adj.似真实的，似乎有理的，似乎可信的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
93
tawny
|
|
| adj.茶色的，黄褐色的；n.黄褐色 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
94
hop
|
|
| n.单脚跳，跳跃；vi.单脚跳，跳跃；着手做某事；vt.跳跃，跃过 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
95
dwindled
|
|
| v.逐渐变少或变小( dwindle的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
96
waddling
|
|
| v.（像鸭子一样）摇摇摆摆地走( waddle的现在分词 ) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
97
covenant
|
|
| n.盟约，契约；v.订盟约 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
98
prehistoric
|
|
| adj.（有记载的）历史以前的，史前的，古老的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
99
animated
|
|
| adj.生气勃勃的，活跃的，愉快的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
100
gnawed
|
|
| 咬( gnaw的过去式和过去分词 )； （长时间） 折磨某人； （使）苦恼； （长时间）危害某事物 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
101
exquisite
|
|
| adj.精美的；敏锐的；剧烈的，感觉强烈的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
102
rococo
|
|
| n.洛可可；adj.过分修饰的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
103
eroded
|
|
| adj. 被侵蚀的，有蚀痕的 动词erode的过去式和过去分词形式 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
104
tinted
|
|
| adj. 带色彩的 动词tint的过去式和过去分词 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
105
cascade
|
|
| n.小瀑布，喷流；层叠；vi.成瀑布落下 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
106
standing
|
|
| n.持续，地位；adj.永久的，不动的，直立的，不流动的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
107
corpse
|
|
| n.尸体，死尸 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
108
lewd
|
|
| adj.淫荡的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
109
guts
|
|
| 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 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
110
skull
|
|
| n.头骨；颅骨 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
111
conceal
|
|
| v.隐藏，隐瞒，隐蔽 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
112
bleak
|
|
| adj.(天气)阴冷的；凄凉的；暗淡的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
113
suede
|
|
| n.表面粗糙的软皮革 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
114
sheathed
|
|
| adj.雕塑像下半身包在鞘中的；覆盖的；铠装的；装鞘了的v.将（刀、剑等）插入鞘( sheathe的过去式和过去分词 )；包，覆盖 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
115
touching
|
|
| adj.动人的，使人感伤的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
116
shuffled
|
|
| v.洗（纸牌）( shuffle的过去式和过去分词 )；拖着脚步走；粗心地做；摆脱尘世的烦恼 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
117
shear
|
|
| n.修剪，剪下的东西，羊的一岁；vt.剪掉，割，剥夺；vi.修剪，切割，剥夺，穿越 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
118
fatigue
|
|
| n.疲劳，劳累 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
119
gangsters
|
|
| 匪徒，歹徒( gangster的名词复数 ) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
120
attentive
|
|
| adj.注意的，专心的；关心(别人)的，殷勤的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
121
bowling
|
|
| n.保龄球运动 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
122
fiddling
|
|
| 微小的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
123
alley
|
|
| n.小巷，胡同；小径，小路 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
124
chaos
|
|
| n.混乱，无秩序 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
125
prostrate
|
|
| v.拜倒，平卧，衰竭；adj.拜倒的，平卧的，衰竭的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
126
converge
|
|
| vi.会合；聚集，集中；(思想、观点等)趋近 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
127
disarray
|
|
| n.混乱，紊乱，凌乱 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
128
crescendo
|
|
| n.(音乐)渐强，高潮 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
| 欢迎访问英文小说网 |