In which things are not so amusing
I
The party had begun late, with a core of only a dozen Sick. Evening was hot and not likely to get any cooler. They all sweated. The loft1 itself was part of an old warehouse2 and not a legal residence; buildings in this area of the city had been condemned3 years ago. Someday there would be cranes, dump trucks, payloaders, bulldozers to come and level the neighborhood; but in the meantime, nobody - city or landlords - saw any objection in turning a minor4 profit.
There hung therefore about Raoul, Slab5 and Melvin's pad a climate of impermanence, as if the sand-sculptures, unfinished canvases, thousands of paperback6 books suspended in tiers of cement blocks and warped7 planks8, even the great marble toilet stolen from a mansion9 in the east 70's (since replaced by a glass and aluminum11 apartment building) were all part of the set to an experimental play which its cabal12 of faceless angels could cause to be struck at any moment without having to give their reasons.
People would arrive, come the late hours. Raoul, Slab and Melvin's refrigerator was already half filled with a ruby13 construction of wine bottles; gallon of Vino Paisano slightly above center, left, off-balancing two 25-cent bottles of Gallo Grenache Rose, and one of Chilean Riesling, lower right, and so on. The icebox door was left open so people could admire, could dig. Why not? Accidental art had great vogue15 that year.
Winsome16 wasn't there when the party began and didn't show up at all that night. Nor any night after that. He'd had another fight with Mafia in the afternoon, over playing tapes of McClintic Sphere's group in the parlor17 while she was trying to create in the bedroom.
"If you ever tried to create," she yelled, "instead of live off what other people create, you'd understand."
"Who creates," Winsome said. "Your editor, publisher? Without them, girl, you would be nowhere."
"Anywhere you are, old sweet, is nowhere." Winsome gave it up and left her to scream at Fang18. He had to step over three sleeping bodies on the way out. Which one was Pig Bodine? They were all covered by blankets. Like the old pea-and-nutshell dodge20. Did it make any difference? She'd have company.
He headed downtown and after a while had wandered by the V-Note. Inside were stacked tables and the bartender watching a ball game on TV. Two fat Siamese kittens played on the piano, one outside chasing up and down the keyboard, one inside, clawing at the strings21. It didn't sound like much.
"Roon."
"Man, I need a change of luck, no racial slur22 intended."
"Get a divorce." McClintic appeared in a foul23 mood. "Roon, let's go to Lenox. I can't last the weekend. Don't tell me any woman trouble. I got enough for both of us."
"Why not. Out to the boondocks. Green hills. Well people."
"Come on. There is a little girl I have to get out of this town before she flips24 from the heat. Or whatever it is."
It took them a while. They drank beer till sunset and then headed up to Winsome's where they swapped25 the Triumph for a black Buick. "It looks like a staff car for the Mafia," said McClintic. "Whoops26."
"Ha, ha," replied Winsome. They continued uptown along the nighttime Hudson, veering27 finally right into Harlem. And there began working their way in to Matilda Winthrop's, bar by bar.
Not long after they were arguing like undergraduates over who was the most juiced, gathering28 hostile stares which had less to do with color than with an inherent quality of conservatism which neighborhood bars possess and bars where how much you can drink is a test of manhood do not.
They arrived at Matilda's well past midnight. The old lady, hearing Winsome's rebel accent, talked only to McClintic. Ruby came downstairs and McClintic introduced them.
Crash, shrieks29, deep-chested laughter from topside. Matilda ran out of the room screaming.
"Sylvia, Ruby's friend, is busy tonight," McClintic said.
Winsome was charming. "You young folks just take it easy," he said. "Old Uncle Roony will drive you anywhere you want, won't look in the rear view mirror, won't be anything but the kindly31 old chauffeur32 he is."
Which cheered McClintic up. There being a certain strained politeness in the way Ruby held his arm. Winsome could see how McClintic was daft to get out in the country.
More noise from upstairs, louder this time. "McClintic," Matilda yelled.
"I must go play bouncer," he told Roony. "Back in five."
Which left only Roony and Ruby in the parlor.
"I know a girl I can take along, said he, "I suppose, her name is Rachel Owlglass, who lives on 112th."
Ruby fiddled33 with the catches on her overnight bag. "Your wife wouldn't like that too much. Why don't McClintic and I just go up in the Triumph. You shouldn't go to that trouble."
"My wife," angry all at once, "is a fucking Fascist34, I think you should know that."
"But if you brought along -"
"All I want to do is go now somewhere out of town, away from New York, away to where things you expect to happen do happen. Didn't they ever use to? You're still young enough. It's still that way for kids, isn't it?"
"I'm not that young," she whispered. "Please Roony, be easy."
"Girl, if it isn't Lenox it will be someplace. Further east, Walden Pond, ha ha. No. No, that's public beach now where slobs from Boston who'd be at Revere35 Beach except for too many other slobs like themselves already there crowding them out, these slobs sit on the rocks around Walden Pond belching, drinking beer they've cleverly smuggled36 in past the guards, checking the young stuff, hating their wives, their evil-smelling kids who urinate in the water on the sly . . . Where? Where in Massachusetts. Where in the country."
"Stay home."
"No. If only to see how bad Lenox is."
"Baby, baby," she sang soft, absent: "Have you heard,/ Did you know/ There ain't no dope in Lenox."
"How did you do it."
"Burnt cork37, she told him. "Like a minstrel show."
"No," he started across the room away from her. "You didn't use anything. Didn't have to. No makeup38. Mafia, you know, thinks you're German. I thought you were Puerto Rican before Rachel told me. Is that what you are, something we can look at and see whatever we want? Protective coloration?"
"I have read books," said Paola, "and listen, Roony, nobody knows what a Maltese is. The Maltese think they're a pure race and the Europeans think they're Semitic, Hamitic, crossbred with North Africans, Turks and God knows what all. But for McClintic, for anybody else round here I am a Negro girl named Ruby -" he snorted - "and don't tell them, him, please man."
"I'll never tell, Paola." Then McClintic was back. "You two wait till I find a friend."
"Rach," beamed McClintic. "Good show." Paola looked upset.
"I think us four, out in the country -" his words were for Paola, he was drunk, he was messing it up - "we could make it, it would be a fresh thing, clean, a beginning."
"Maybe I should drive," McClintic said. It would give him something to concentrate on till things got easier, out of the city. And Roony looked drunk. More than that, maybe.
"You drive," Winsome agreed, weary. God, let her be there. All the way down to 112th (and McClintic gunned it) he wondered what he'd do if she wasn't there.
She wasn't there. The door was open, noteless. She usually left some word. She usually locked doors. Winsome went inside. Two or three lights were on. Nobody was there.
Only her slip tossed awry39 on the bed. He picked it up, black and slippery. Slippery slip, he thought and kissed it by the left breast. The phone rang. He let it ring. Finally:
"Where is Esther?" She sounded out of breath.
"You wear nice lingerie," Winsome said.
"Thank you. She hasn't come in?"
"Beware of girls with black underwear."
"Roony, not now. She has really gone and got her ass10 in a sling14. Could you look and see if there's a note."
"Come with me to Lenox, Massachusetts."
Patient sigh.
"There's no note. No nothing."
"Would you look anyway. I'm in the subway."
Come with me to Lenox [Roony sang], It's August in Nueva York Ciudad; You've told so many good men nix; Please don't put me down with a dark, "see you Dad" . . .
Refrain [beguine tempo]:
Come out where the wind is cool and the streets are colonial lanes.
Though the ghosts of a million Puritans pace in our phony old brains,
I still get an erection when I hear the reed section of the Boston Pops,
Come and leave this Bohemia, life's really dreamy away from the JDs and cops.
Lenox is grand, are you digging me, Rachel,
Broadening a's by the width of an h'll
Be something we've never tried . . .
Up in the country of Alden and Walden,
Country to glow sentimental41 and bald in
With you by my side,
How can it go wrong?
Hey, Rachel [snap, snap-on one and three]: you coming along . . .
She'd hung up halfway42 through. Winsome sat by the phone, holding the slip. Just sat.
II
Esther had indeed got her ass in a sling. Her emotional ass, anyway. Rachel had found her earlier that afternoon crying down in the laundry room.
"Wha," Rachel said. Esther only bawled43 louder.
"Girl," gently. "Tell Rach."
"Get off my back." So they chased each other around the washers and centrifuges and in and out of the flapping sheets, rag rugs and brassieres of the drying room.
"Look, I want to help you, is all." Esther had got tangled44 in a sheet. Rachel stood helpless in the dark laundry room, yelling at her. Washing machine in the next room ran all at once amok; a cascade45 of soapy water came funneling46 through the doorway47, bearing down on them. Rachel with a foul expression kicked off her Capezios, hiked her skirt up and headed for a mop.
She hadn't been swabbing five minutes when Pig Bodine stuck his head around the door. "You are doing that wrong. Where did you ever learn to handle a swab."
"Here," she said. "You want a swab? I got your swab." She ran at him, spinning the mop. Pig retreated.
"What's wrong with Esther. I wrapped into her on the way down." Rachel wished she knew. By the time she'd dried the floor and run up the fire escape and in the window to their apartment Esther was, of course, gone.
"Slab," Rachel figured. Slab was on the phone after half a ring.
"I'll let you know if she shows."
"But Slab -"
"Wha," said Slab.
Wha. Oh, well. She hung up.
Pig was sitting in the transom. Automatically she turned on the radio for him. Little Willie John came on singing Fever.
"What's wrong with Esther," she said, for something to say.
"I asked you that," said Pig. "I bet she's knocked up."
"You would." Rachel had a headache. She headed for the bathroom to meditate48.
Fever was touching49 them all.
Pig, evil-minded Pig, inferred right for once. Esther showed up at Slab's looking like any traditional mill hand, seamstress or shop girl Done Wrong: dull hair, puffy face, looking heavier already in the breasts and abdomen50.
Five minutes and she had Slab railing. He stood before Cheese Danish # 56, a cockeyed specimen51 covering an entire wall, dwarfing52 him in his shadowy clothes as he waved arms, tossed his forelock.
"Don't tell me. Schoenmaker won't give you a dime53. I know that already. You want to put a small bet on this? I say it'll come out with a big hook nose."
That shut her up. Kindly Slab was of the shock-treatment school.
"Look," he grabbed a pencil. "It is no time of year to go to Cuba. Hotter than Nueva York, no doubt, off season. But for all his Fascist tendencies, Battista has one golden virtue54: abortion55 he maintains is legal. Which means you get an M.D. who knows what he's about, not some fumbling56 amateur. It's clean, it's safe, it's legal, above all, it's cheap."
"It's murder."
"You've turned R. C. Good show. For some reason it always becomes fashionable during a Decadence57."
"You know what I am," she whispered.
"We'll leave that go. I wish I did." He stopped a minute because he felt himself going sentimental. He finagled around with figures on a scrap58 of vellum. "For 300," he said, "we can get you there and back. Including meals if you feel like eating."
"We."
"The Whole Sick Crew. You can do it inside a week, down to Havana and back. You'll be yo-yo champion."
"No."
So they talked metaphysics while the afternoon waned59. Neither felt he was defending or trying to prove anything important. It was like playing one-up at a party, or Botticelli. They quoted to each other from Liguorian tracts, Galen, Aristotle, David Riesman, T. S. Eliot.
"How can you say there's a soul there. How can you tell when the soul enters the flesh. Or whether you even have a soul?"
"It's murdering your own child, is what it is."
"Child, schmild. A complex protein molecule60, is all."
"I guess on the rare occasions you bathe you wouldn't mind using Nazi61 soap made from one of those six million Jews."
"All right -" he was mad - "show me the difference."
After that it ceased being logical and phony and became emotional and phony. They were like a drunk with dry heaves: having brought up and expelled all manner of old words which had always, somehow, sat wrong, they then proceeded to fill the loft with futile62 yelling trying to heave up their own living tissue, organs which had no business anywhere but where they were.
As the sun went dawn she broke out of a point-by-point condemnation63 of Slab's moral code to assault Cheese Danish # 56, charging at it with windmilling nails.
"Go ahead," Slab said, "it will help the texture64." He was on the phone. "Winsome's not home." He jittered65 the receiver, dialed information. "Where can I get 300 bills," he said. "No, the banks are closed . . . I am against usury66." He quoted to the phone operator from Ezra Pound's Cantos.
"How come," he wondered, "all you phone operators talk through your nose." Laughter. "Fine, we'll try it sometime." Esther yelped67, having just broken a fingernail. Slab hung up. "It fights back," he said. "Baby, we need 300. Somebody must have it." He decided68 to call all his friends who had savings accounts. A minute later this list was exhausted69 and he was no closer to financing Esther's trip south. Esther was tramping around looking for a bandage. She finally had to settle for a wad of toilet paper and a rubber band.
"I'll think of something," he said. "Stick by Slab, babe. Who is a humanitarian70." They both knew she would. To whom else? She was the sticking sort.
So Slab sat thinking and Esther waved the paper ball at the end of her finger to a private tune71, maybe an old love song. Though neither would admit it they also waited for Raoul and Melvin and the Crew to arrive for the party; while all the time the colors in the wall-size painting were shifting, reflecting new wavelengths72 to compensate73 for the wasting sun.
Rachel, out looking for Esther, didn't arrive at the party till late. Coming up the seven flights to the loft she passed at each landing, like frontier guards, nuzzling couples, hopelessly drunken boys, brooding types who read out of and scrawled74 cryptic75 notes in paper books stolen from Raoul, Slab and Melvin's library; all of whom informed her how she had missed all the fun. What this fun was she found out before she'd fairly wedged her way into the kitchen where all the Good People were.
Melvin was holding forth76 on his guitar, in an improvised77 folk song, about how humanitarian a cove19 his roommate Slab was; crediting him with being (a) a neo-Wobbly and reincarnation of Joe Hill, (b) the world's leading pacifist, (c) a rebel with taproots in the American Tradition, (d) in militant78 opposition79 to Fascism, private capital, the Republican administration and Westbrook Pegler.
While Melvin sang Raoul provided Rachel with a kind of marginal gloss80 on the sources of Melvin's present adulation.
It seemed earlier Slab had waited till the room was jammed to capacity, then mounted the marble toilet and called for silence.
"Esther here is pregnant," he announced, "and needs 300 bucks81 to go to Cuba and have an abortion." Cheering, warmhearted, grinning ear to ear, juiced, the Whole Sick Crew dug deep into their pockets and the wellsprings of a common humanity to come up with loose change, worn bills, and a few subway tokens, all of which Slab collected in an old pith helmet with Greek letters on it, left over from somebody's fraternity weekend years ago.
Surprisingly it came to $295 and some change. Slab with a flourish produced a ten he'd borrowed fifteen minutes before his speech from Fergus Mixolydian, who had just received a Ford82 Foundation grant and was having more than wistful thoughts about Buenos Aires, from which there is no extradition83.
If Esther objected verbally to the proceedings84, no record of it exists, there being too much noise in the room, for one thing. After the collection Slab banded her the pith helmet and she was helped up on the toilet, where she made a brief but moving acceptance speech. Amid the ensuing applause Slab roared "Off to Idlewild," or something, and they were both lifted bodily and carried out of the loft and down the stairs. The only gauche85 note to the evening was struck by one of their bearers, an undergraduate and recent arrival on the Sick Scene, who suggested they could save all the trouble of a trip to Cuba and use the money for another party if they induced a miscarriage86 by dropping Esther down the stairwell. He was quickly silenced.
"Dear God," said Rachel. She had never seen so many red faces, the linoleum wet with so much spilled alcohol, vomit87, wine.
"I need a car," she told Raoul.
"Wheels," Raoul screamed. "Four wheels for Rach." But the Crew's generosity had been exhausted. Nobody listened. Maybe from her lack of enthusiasm they'd deduced she was about to roar off to Idlewild and try to stop Esther. They weren't having any.
It was only at that point, early in the morning, that Rachel thought of Profane88. He would be off shift now. Dear Profane. An adjective which hung unvoiced in the party's shivaree, hung in her most secret cortex to bloom - she helpless against it - only far enough to surround her 4' 10" with an envelope of peace. Knowing all the time Profane too was wheelless.
"So," she said. All it was was no wheels on Profane, the boy a born pedestrian. Under his own power which was also power over her. Then what was she doing: declaring herself a dependent? As if here were the heart's authentic89 income-tax form, tortuous90 enough, mucked up with enough polysyllabic words to take her all of twenty-two years to figure out. At least that long: for surely it was complicated, being a duty you could rightfully avoid with none of fancy's Feds ever to worry about tracking you down on it, but. That "but." If you did take the trouble, even any first step, it meant stacking income against output; and who knew what embarrassments91, exposes of self that might drag you into?
Strange the places these things can happen in. Stranger that they ever do happen. She headed for the phone. It was in use. But she could wait.
III
Profane arrived at Winsome's to find Mafia wearing only the inflatable brassiere and playing a game of her own invention called Musical Blankets with three beaux who were new to Profane. The record being stopped at random92 was Hank Snow singing It Don't Hurt Any More. Profane went to the icebox and got beer; was thinking of calling Paola when the phone rang.
"Idlewild?" he said. "Maybe we can borrow Roony's car. The Buick. Only I can't drive."
"I can," Rachel said, "stand by."
Profane with a rueful look back at the buoyant Mafia and her friends, moseyed down the fire stairs to the garage. No Buick. Only McClintic Sphere's Triumph, locked, keys gone. Profane sat on the Triumph's hood, surrounded by his inanimate buddies93 from Detroit. Rachel was there in fifteen minutes.
"No car," he said, "we're screwed."
"Oh dear." She told him why they had to get to Idlewild.
"I don't see why you're so excited. She wants to get her uterus scraped, let her."
What Rachel should have said then was "You callous94 son of a bitch," slugged him and sought transportation elsewhere. But having come to him with a certain fondness - perhaps only satisfied with this new, maybe temporary, definition of peace - she tried to reason.
"I don't know if it's murder or not," she said. "Nor care. How close is close? I'm against it because of what it does to the abortionee. Ask the girl who's had one."
For a second Profane thought she was talking about herself. There came this impulse to get away. She was acting95 weird96 tonight.
Because Esther is weak, Esther is a victim. She will come out of the ether hating men, believing they're all liars97 and still knowing she'll take what she can get whether he's careful or not. She'll get to where she can take on anybody: neighborhood racketeers, college boys, arty types, daft and delinquent98, because it's something she can't get along without."
"Don't, Rachel. Esther, wha. Are you in love with her, you sweat it so much."
"I am."
"Close your mouth," she told him. "What is your name, Pig Bodine? You know what I'm saying. How many times have you told me about under the street, and on the street, and in the subway."
"Them," chopfallen. "Sure, but."
"I mean I love Esther like you love the dispossessed, the wayward. What else can I feel? For somebody who guilt's such an aphrodisiac for. Up to now she's been selective. But when she's felt it, feeling always this own breed of half-assed love for Slab, and the pig Schoenmaker. Going for these exhausted, ulcerous99, lonely rejects."
"Slab and you were -" kicking a tire - "horizontal once."
"OK." Quiet. "It is myself, what I could slide back into, maybe a girl-victim underneath100 this red mop -" she had one little hand pushed up from under into her hair and was slowly lifting the thick mane of it, while Profane watched and began to grow erect40 - "part of me that I can see in her. Just as it is Profane the Depression Kid, that lump that wasn't aborted, that became an awareness101 on the floor of one old Hooverville shack102 in '32, it's him you see in every no-name drifter, mooch, square's tenant103, him you love."
Who was she talking about? Profane'd had all night to rehearse but never expected this. He hung his head and kicked inanimate tires, knowing they'd take revenge when he was looking for it least. He was afraid now to say anything.
She held her hair up, eyes gone all rainy; came off the fender she'd been leaning back on and stood spraddle-legged, hips105 poised106 in a bow, his direction.
"Slab and I rotated our 90 degrees because we were incompatible107. The Crew lost all glamour108 for me, I grew up, I don't know what happened. But he will never leave it, though his eyes are open and he sees as much as I do. I didn't want to be sucked in, was all. But then you . . ."
Thus the maverick109 daughter of Stuyvesant Owlglass perched like any pinup beauty. Ready at the slightest pressure surge in the blood lines, endocrine imbalance, quickening of nerves at the lovebreeding zones to pivot110 into some covenant111 with Profane the schlemihl. Her breasts seemed to expand toward him, but he stood fast; unwilling112 to retreat from pleasure, unwilling to convict himself of love for bums113, himself, her, unwilling to see her proved inanimate as the rest.
Why that last? Only a general desire to find somebody for once on the right or real side of the TV screen? What made her hold any promise of being any more human?
You ask too many questions, he told himself. Stop asking, take. Give. Whatever she wants to call it. Whether the bulge114 is in your skivvies or your brain do something. She doesn't know, you don't know.
Only that the nipples which came to make a warm diamond with his navel and the padded cusp of his ribcage, the girl's ass one hand moved to automatic, the recently fluffed hairs tickling115 his nostrils116 had nothing, for once, at all to do with this black garage or the car-shadows which did accidentally include the two of them.
Rachel now only wanted to hold him, feel the top of his beer belly flattening117 her bra-less breasts, already evolving schemes to make him lose weight, exercise more.
McClintic came in and found them like that, holding together until now and again one or the other lost balance and made tiny staggers to compensate. Underground garage for a dancing-floor. So they dance all over the cities.
Rachel grasped Everything outside as Paola climbed from the Buick. The two girls confronted, smiled, passed; their histories would go different from here on, said the shy twin looks they swapped. All McClintic said was, "Roony is asleep on your bed. Somebody ought to look after him."
"Profane, Profane," she laughed while the Buick growled118 to her touch, "dear; we've got so many of them to take care of now."
IV
Winsome came awake from a dream of defenestration, wondering why he hadn't thought of it before. From Rachel's bedroom window it was seven stories to a courtyard used for mean purposes only: drunk's evacuation, a dump for old beer cans and mop-dust, the pleasures of nighttime cats. How his cadaver could glorify119 that!
He moved to the window, opened, straddled, listened. Girls being tailed somewhere along Broadway, giggling120. Musician out of work practicing trombone. Rock 'n' roll across the way:
Little teen-age goddess
Don't tell me no,
into the park tonight
We're going to go,
Let me be
Your teen-age Romeo . . .
Dedicated121 to the duck's-ass heads and bursting straight skirts of the Street. That gave cops ulcers122 and the Youth Board gainful employment.
Why not go down there? Heat rises. On the areaway's jagged floor there'd be no August.
"Listen friends," Winsome said, "there is a word for all our crew and it is sick. Some of us cannot keep our flies zipped, others remain faithful to one mate till menopause or the Grand Climacteric steps in. But randy or monogamous, on one side of the night or the other, on or off the Street, there is no one of us you can point to and call well.
"Fergus Mixolydian the Irish Armenian Jew takes money from a Foundation named after a man who spent millions trying to prove thirteen rabbis rule the world. Fergus sees nothing wrong there.
"Esther Harvitz pays to get the body she was born with altered and then falls deeply in love with the man who mutilated her. Esther sees nothing wrong either.
"Raoul the television writer can produce drama devious123 enough to slip by any sponsor's roadblock and still tell the staring fans what's wrong with them and what they're watching. But he's happy with westerns and detective stories.
"Slab the painter, whose eyes are open, has technical skill and if you will 'soul.' But is committed to cheese Danishes.
"Melvin the folk-singer has no talent. Ironically he does more social commenting than the rest of the Crew put together. He accomplishes nothing.
"Mafia Winsome is smart enough to create a world but too stupid not to live in it. Finding the real world never jibing124 with her fancy she spends all kinds of energy - sexual, emotional - trying to make it conform, never succeeding.
"And on it goes. Anybody who continues to live in a subculture so demonstrably sick has no right to call himself well. The only well thing to do is what I am going to do now, namely, jump out this window."
So speaking Winsome straightened his tie and prepared to defenestrate.
"I say," said Pig Bodine, who'd been out in the kitchen listening. "Don't you know life is the most precious possession you have?"
"I have heard that one before," said Winsome, and jumped. He had forgotten about the fire escape three feet below the window. By the time he'd picked himself up and swung a leg over, Pig was out the window. Pig grabbed Winsome's belt just as he went over the second time.
"Now look," said Pig. A drunk, urinating below in the courtyard, glanced up and started yelling for everybody to come watch the suicide. Lights came on, windows opened and pretty soon Pig and Winsome had an audience. Winsome hung jackknifed, looking placidly125 down at the drunk and calling him obscene names.
"How about letting go," Winsome said after a while. "Aren't your arms getting tired?"
Pig admitted they were. "Did I ever tell you," Pig said, "the story about the coke sacker, the cork soaker and the sock tucker."
Winsome started to laugh and with a mighty126 heave, Pig brought him back over the low rail of the fire escape.
"No fair," said Winsome who had knocked the wind out of Pig. He tore away and went running down the steps. Pig, sounding like an espresso machine with faulty valves, joined the pursuit a second later. He caught Winsome two stories down, standing127 on the rail holding his nose. This time he slung Winsome over a shoulder and started grimly up the fire escape. Winsome slithered away and ran down another floor. "Ah, good," he said. "Still four stories. High enough."
The rock 'n' roll enthusiast128 across the court had turned his radio up. Elvis Presley, singing Don't Be Cruel, gave them background music. Pig could hear cop sirens arriving out in front.
So they chased each other up down and around the fire escapes. After a while they got dizzy and started to giggle129. The audience cheered them on. So little happens in New York. Police came charging into the areaway with nets, spotlights130, ladders.
Finally Pig had chased Winsome down to the first landing, half a story above the ground. By this time the cops had spread out a net.
"You still want to jump," Pig said.
"Yes," said Winsome.
"Go ahead," said Pig.
Winsome went down in a swan dive, trying to land on his head. The net, of course, was there. He bounced once and lay all flabby while they wrapped him in a strait jacket and carted him off to Bellevue.
Pig, suddenly realizing that he had been AWOL for eight months today, and that "cop" may be defined as "civilian131 Shore Patrolman," turned and raced fleetly up the fire escape for Rachel's window, leaving the solid citizens to turn their lights off and go back to Elvis Presley. Once inside, he reckoned he could put on an old dress of Esther's and a babushka and talk in falsetto, should the cops decide to come up and inquire. They were so stupid they'd never know the difference.
V
At Idlewild was a fat three-year-old who waited to bounce over the tarmac to a waiting plane - Miami, Havana, San Juan - looking blase132 and heavy-lidded over the dandruffed shoulder of her father's black suit at the claque of relatives assembled to see her off. "Cucarachita," they cried, "adios, adios."
For such wee hours the airport was mobbed. After having Esther paged, Rachel went weaving in and out of the crowd in a random search-pattern for her strayed roommate. At last she joined Profane at the rail.
"Some guardian133 angels we are."
"I checked on Pan American and all of them," Profane said. "The big ones. They were full up days ago. This Anglo Airlines here is the only one going out this morning."
Loudspeaker announced the flight, DC-3 waited across the strip, dilapidated and hardly gleaming under the lights. The gate opened, waiting passengers began to move. The Puerto Rican baby's friends had come armed with maracas, claves, timbales. They all moved in like a bodyguard134 to escort her out to the plane. A few cops tried to break it up. Somebody started to sing, pretty soon everybody was singing.
"There she is," Rachel yelled. Esther came scooting around from behind a row of lockers135, with Slab running interference. Eyes and mouth bawling, overnight case leaking a trail of cologne which would dry quickly on the pavement, she charged in among the Puerto Ricans. Rachel, running after her, sidestepped a cop only to run head on into Slab.
"Oof," said Slab.
"What the hell's the idea, lout136." He had hold of one arm.
"Let her go," Slab said. "She wants to."
"You've slammed her around," yelled Rachel. "You trying to total her? It didn't work with me so you had to pick on somebody as weak as you are. Why couldn't you confine your mistakes to paint and canvas."
One way or another the Whole Sick Crew was giving the cops a busy night. Whistles started blowing. The area between the rail and the DC-3 was swelling137 into a small-scale riot.
Why not? It was August and cops do not like Puerto Ricans. The multimetronome clatter138 from Cucarachita's rhythm section turned angry like a swarm139 of locusts140 turning for the approach on some rich field. Slab began shouting unkind reminiscences of the days he and Rachel had been horizontal.
Profane meanwhile was trying to keep from being clobbered141. He'd lost Esther who was naturally using the riot for a screen. Somebody started blinking all the lights in that part of Idlewild which made things even worse.
He finally broke clear of a small knot of wellwishers and spotted142 Esther running across the airstrip. She'd lost one shoe. He was about to go after her when a body fell across his path. He tripped, went down, opened his eyes to a pair of girl's legs he knew.
"Benito." The sad pout143, sexy as ever.
"God, what else."
She was going back to San Juan. Of the months between the gang bang and now she'd say nothing.
"Fina, Fina, don't go." Like photographs in your wallet, what good is an old love - however ill-defined - down in San Juan?
"Angel and Geronimo are here." She looked around vaguely144.
"They want me to go," she told him, on her way again. He followed, haranguing145. He'd forgotten about Esther. Cucarachita and father came running past. Profane and Fina passed Esther's shoe, lying on its side with a broken heel.
Finally Fina turned, dry-eyed. "Remember the night in the bathtub?" spat, spun146, dashed off for the plane.
"Your ass," he said, "they would have got you sooner or later." But stood there anyway, still as any object.
"I did it," he said after a while. "It was me." Schlemihls being, as he believed, passive, he could not remember ever having admitted anything like this. "Oh, man." Plus letting Esther get away, plus having Rachel now for a dependent, plus whatever would happen with Paola. For a boy not getting any he had more woman problems than anybody he knew.
He started back for Rachel. The riot was breaking up. Behind him propellers spun; the plane taxied, slewed147, became airborne, was gone. He didn't turn to watch it.
VI
Patrolman Jones and Officer Ten Eyck, disdaining148 the elevator, marched in perfect unison149 up two flights of palatial150 stairway, down the hall toward Winsome's apartment. A few tabloid151 reporters who had taken the elevator intercepted152 them halfway there. Noise from Winsome's apartment could be heard down on Riverside Drive.
"Never know what Bellevue is going to turn up," said Jones.
He and his sidekick were faithful viewers of the TV program Dragnet. They'd cultivated deadpan153 expressions, unsyncopated speech rhythms, monotone voices. One was tall and skinny, the other was short and fat. They walked in step.
"Talked to a doctor there," said Ten Eyck. "Young fella named Gottschalk. Winsome had a lot to say."
"We'll see, Al."
Before the door, Jones and Ten Eyck waited politely for the one cameraman in the group to check his flash attachment154. A girl was heard to shriek30 happily inside.
"Oboy, oboy," said a reporter.
The cops knocked. "Come in, come in," called many juiced voices.
"It's the police, ma'am."
"I hate fuzz," somebody snarled155. Ten Eyck kicked in the door, which had been open. Bodies inside fell back to provide the cameraman a line-of-sight to Mafia, Charisma156, Fu and friends, playing Musical Blankets. Zap, went the camera.
"Too bad," the photographer said, "we can't print that one. " Ten Eyck shouldered his way over to Mafia.
"All right, ma'am."
"Would you like to play," hysterical157.
The cop smiled, tolerantly. "We've talked to your husband."
"We'd better go," said the other cop.
"Guess Al is right, ma'am." Flash attachment lit up the room from time to time, like a spell of heat lightning.
Ten Eyck flapped a warrant. "All you folks are under arrest," he said. To Jones: "Call the Lieutenant158, Steve."
"What charge," people started yelling.
Ten Eyck's timing159 was good. He waited a few heartbeats. "Disturbing the peace will do," he said.
Maybe the only peace undisturbed that night was McClintic's and Paola's. The little Triumph forged along up the Hudson, their own wind was cool, taking away whatever of Nueva York had clogged160 ears, nostrils, mouths.
She talked to him straight and McClintic kept cool. While she told him about who she was, about Stencil161 and Fausto - even a homesick travelogue162 of Malta - there came to McClintic something it was time he got around to seeing: that the only way clear of the cool/crazy flipflop was obviously slow, frustrating164 and hard work. Love with your mouth shut, help without breaking your ass or publicizing it: keep cool, but care. He might have known, if he'd used any common sense. It didn't come as a revelation, only something he'd as soon not've admitted.
"Sure," he said later, as they headed into the Berkshires. "Paola, did you know I have been blowing a silly line all this time. Mister Flab the original, is me. Lazy and taking for granted some wonder drug someplace to cure that town, to cure me. Now there isn't and never will be. Nobody is going to step down from heaven and square away Roony and his woman, or Alabama, or South Africa or us and Russia. There's no magic words. Not even I love you is magic enough. Can you see Eisenhower telling Malenkov or Khrushchev that? Ho-ho."
"Keep cool but care," he said. Somebody had run over a skunk165 a ways back. The smell had followed them for miles. "If my mother was alive I would have her make a sampler with that on it."
"You know, don't you," she began, "that I have to -"
"Go back home, sure. But the week's not over yet. Be easy, girl."
"I can't. Can I ever?"
"We'll stay away from musicians," was all he said. Did he know of anything she could be, ever?
"Flop163, flip," he sang to the trees of Massachusetts. "Once I was hip104 . . ."
收听单词发音 |
1
loft
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| n.阁楼，顶楼 | |
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warehouse
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| n.仓库；vt.存入仓库 | |
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condemned
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| adj. 被责难的, 被宣告有罪的 动词condemn的过去式和过去分词 | |
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minor
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| adj.较小(少)的，较次要的；n.辅修学科；vi.辅修 | |
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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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paperback
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| n.平装本，简装本 | |
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warped
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| adj.反常的；乖戾的；（变）弯曲的；变形的v.弄弯，变歪( warp的过去式和过去分词 )；使（行为等）不合情理，使乖戾， | |
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planks
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| （厚）木板( plank的名词复数 )； 政纲条目，政策要点 | |
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mansion
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| n.大厦，大楼；宅第 | |
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ass
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| n.驴；傻瓜，蠢笨的人 | |
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aluminum
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| n.(aluminium)铝 | |
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cabal
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| n.政治阴谋小集团 | |
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ruby
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| n.红宝石，红宝石色 | |
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sling
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| vt.扔；悬挂；n.挂带；吊索，吊兜；弹弓 | |
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Vogue
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| n.时髦，时尚；adj.流行的 | |
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winsome
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| n.迷人的，漂亮的 | |
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parlor
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| n.店铺，营业室；会客室，客厅 | |
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fang
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| n.尖牙，犬牙 | |
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cove
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| n.小海湾，小峡谷 | |
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dodge
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| v.闪开，躲开，避开；n.妙计，诡计 | |
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strings
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| n.弦 | |
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slur
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| v.含糊地说；诋毁；连唱；n.诋毁；含糊的发音 | |
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foul
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| adj.污秽的；邪恶的；v.弄脏；妨害；犯规；n.犯规 | |
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flips
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| 轻弹( flip的第三人称单数 )； 按（开关）； 快速翻转； 急挥 | |
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swapped
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| 交换（工作）( swap的过去式和过去分词 )； 用…替换，把…换成，掉换（过来） | |
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whoops
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| int.呼喊声 | |
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veering
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| n.改变的；犹豫的；顺时针方向转向；特指使船尾转向上风来改变航向v.（尤指交通工具）改变方向或路线( veer的现在分词 )；（指谈话内容、人的行为或观点）突然改变；（指风） （在北半球按顺时针方向、在南半球按逆时针方向）逐渐转向；风向顺时针转 | |
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gathering
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| n.集会，聚会，聚集 | |
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shrieks
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| n.尖叫声( shriek的名词复数 )v.尖叫( shriek的第三人称单数 ) | |
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shriek
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| v./n.尖叫，叫喊 | |
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kindly
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| adj.和蔼的，温和的，爽快的；adv.温和地，亲切地 | |
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chauffeur
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| n.(受雇于私人或公司的)司机；v.为…开车 | |
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fiddled
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| v.伪造( fiddle的过去式和过去分词 )；篡改；骗取；修理或稍作改动 | |
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fascist
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| adj.法西斯主义的；法西斯党的；n.法西斯主义者，法西斯分子 | |
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revere
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| vt.尊崇，崇敬，敬畏 | |
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smuggled
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| 水货 | |
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cork
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| n.软木，软木塞 | |
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makeup
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| n.组织；性格；化装品 | |
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awry
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| adj.扭曲的，错的 | |
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erect
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| n./v.树立，建立，使竖立；adj.直立的，垂直的 | |
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sentimental
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| adj.多愁善感的，感伤的 | |
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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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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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tangled
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| adj. 纠缠的，紊乱的 动词tangle的过去式和过去分词 | |
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cascade
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| n.小瀑布，喷流；层叠；vi.成瀑布落下 | |
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funneling
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| [医]成漏斗形：描述膀胱底及膀胱尿道交接区 | |
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doorway
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| n.门口，(喻)入门；门路，途径 | |
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meditate
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| v.想，考虑，（尤指宗教上的）沉思，冥想 | |
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touching
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| adj.动人的，使人感伤的 | |
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abdomen
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| n.腹，下腹(胸部到腿部的部分) | |
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specimen
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| n.样本，标本 | |
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dwarfing
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| n.矮化病 | |
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dime
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| n.（指美国、加拿大的钱币）一角 | |
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virtue
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| n.德行，美德；贞操；优点；功效，效力 | |
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abortion
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| n.流产，堕胎 | |
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fumbling
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| n. 摸索,漏接 v. 摸索,摸弄,笨拙的处理 | |
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decadence
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| n.衰落，颓废 | |
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58
scrap
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| n.碎片；废料；v.废弃，报废 | |
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waned
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| v.衰落( wane的过去式和过去分词 )；（月）亏；变小；变暗淡 | |
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molecule
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| n.分子，克分子 | |
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Nazi
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| n.纳粹分子，adj.纳粹党的，纳粹的 | |
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futile
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| adj.无效的，无用的，无希望的 | |
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condemnation
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| n.谴责; 定罪 | |
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texture
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| n.(织物)质地；(材料)构造；结构；肌理 | |
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jittered
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| v.紧张不安，战战兢兢( jitter的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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usury
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| n.高利贷 | |
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yelped
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| v.发出短而尖的叫声( yelp的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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decided
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| adj.决定了的，坚决的；明显的，明确的 | |
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exhausted
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| adj.极其疲惫的，精疲力尽的 | |
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humanitarian
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| n.人道主义者，博爱者，基督凡人论者 | |
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tune
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| n.调子；和谐，协调；v.调音，调节，调整 | |
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wavelengths
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| n.波长( wavelength的名词复数 )；具有相同的/不同的思路；合拍；不合拍 | |
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compensate
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| vt.补偿，赔偿；酬报 vi.弥补；补偿；抵消 | |
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scrawled
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| 乱涂，潦草地写( scrawl的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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cryptic
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| adj.秘密的，神秘的，含义模糊的 | |
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forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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improvised
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| a.即席而作的,即兴的 | |
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militant
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| adj.激进的，好斗的；n.激进分子，斗士 | |
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opposition
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| n.反对，敌对 | |
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gloss
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| n.光泽，光滑；虚饰；注释；vt.加光泽于；掩饰 | |
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bucks
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| n.雄鹿( buck的名词复数 )；钱；（英国十九世纪初的）花花公子；（用于某些表达方式）责任v.（马等）猛然弓背跃起( buck的第三人称单数 )；抵制；猛然震荡；马等尥起后蹄跳跃 | |
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Ford
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| n.浅滩，水浅可涉处；v.涉水，涉过 | |
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extradition
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| n.引渡（逃犯） | |
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proceedings
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| n.进程，过程，议程；诉讼(程序)；公报 | |
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gauche
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| adj.笨拙的，粗鲁的 | |
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miscarriage
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| n.失败，未达到预期的结果；流产 | |
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vomit
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| v.呕吐，作呕；n.呕吐物，吐出物 | |
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profane
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| adj.亵神的，亵渎的；vt.亵渎，玷污 | |
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authentic
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| a.真的，真正的；可靠的，可信的，有根据的 | |
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tortuous
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| adj.弯弯曲曲的，蜿蜒的 | |
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embarrassments
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| n.尴尬( embarrassment的名词复数 )；难堪；局促不安；令人难堪或耻辱的事 | |
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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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buddies
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| n.密友( buddy的名词复数 )；同伴；弟兄；（用于称呼男子，常带怒气）家伙v.（如密友、战友、伙伴、弟兄般）交往( buddy的第三人称单数 )；做朋友；亲近（…）；伴护艾滋病人 | |
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callous
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| adj.无情的，冷淡的，硬结的，起老茧的 | |
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acting
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| n.演戏，行为，假装；adj.代理的，临时的，演出用的 | |
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weird
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| adj.古怪的，离奇的；怪诞的，神秘而可怕的 | |
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97
liars
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| 说谎者( liar的名词复数 ) | |
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98
delinquent
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| adj.犯法的，有过失的；n.违法者 | |
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99
ulcerous
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| adj.溃疡性的，患溃疡的 | |
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100
underneath
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| adj.在...下面，在...底下；adv.在下面 | |
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101
awareness
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| n.意识，觉悟，懂事，明智 | |
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102
shack
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| adj.简陋的小屋，窝棚 | |
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103
tenant
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| n.承租人；房客；佃户；v.租借，租用 | |
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104
hip
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| n.臀部，髋；屋脊 | |
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105
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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106
poised
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| a.摆好姿势不动的 | |
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107
incompatible
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| adj.不相容的，不协调的，不相配的 | |
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108
glamour
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| n.魔力，魅力；vt.迷住 | |
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109
maverick
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| adj.特立独行的；不遵守传统的；n.持异议者，自行其是者 | |
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110
pivot
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| v.在枢轴上转动；装枢轴，枢轴；adj.枢轴的 | |
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111
covenant
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| n.盟约，契约；v.订盟约 | |
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112
unwilling
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| adj.不情愿的 | |
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113
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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114
bulge
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| n.突出，膨胀，激增；vt.突出，膨胀 | |
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115
tickling
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| 反馈，回授，自旋挠痒法 | |
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116
nostrils
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| 鼻孔( nostril的名词复数 ) | |
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117
flattening
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| n. 修平 动词flatten的现在分词 | |
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118
growled
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| v.（动物）发狺狺声， （雷）作隆隆声( growl的过去式和过去分词 )；低声咆哮着说 | |
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119
glorify
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| vt.颂扬，赞美，使增光，美化 | |
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120
giggling
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| v.咯咯地笑( giggle的现在分词 ) | |
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121
dedicated
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| adj.一心一意的；献身的；热诚的 | |
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122
ulcers
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| n.溃疡( ulcer的名词复数 )；腐烂物；道德败坏；腐败 | |
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123
devious
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| adj.不坦率的，狡猾的；迂回的，曲折的 | |
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124
jibing
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| v.与…一致( jibe的现在分词 )；（与…）相符；相匹配 | |
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125
placidly
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| adv.平稳地，平静地 | |
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126
mighty
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| adj.强有力的；巨大的 | |
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127
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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128
enthusiast
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| n.热心人，热衷者 | |
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129
giggle
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| n.痴笑，咯咯地笑；v.咯咯地笑着说 | |
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130
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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131
civilian
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| adj.平民的，民用的，民众的 | |
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132
blase
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| adj.厌烦于享乐的 | |
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133
guardian
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| n.监护人；守卫者，保护者 | |
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134
bodyguard
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| n.护卫，保镖 | |
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135
lockers
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| n.寄物柜( locker的名词复数 ) | |
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136
lout
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| n.粗鄙的人；举止粗鲁的人 | |
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137
swelling
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| n.肿胀 | |
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138
clatter
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| v./n.(使)发出连续而清脆的撞击声 | |
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139
swarm
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| n.(昆虫)等一大群；vi.成群飞舞；蜂拥而入 | |
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140
locusts
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| n.蝗虫( locust的名词复数 )；贪吃的人；破坏者；槐树 | |
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141
clobbered
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| v.狠揍， （不停）猛打( clobber的过去式和过去分词 )；彻底击败 | |
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142
spotted
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| adj.有斑点的，斑纹的，弄污了的 | |
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143
pout
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| v.撅嘴；绷脸；n.撅嘴；生气，不高兴 | |
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144
vaguely
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| adv.含糊地，暖昧地 | |
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145
haranguing
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| v.高谈阔论( harangue的现在分词 ) | |
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146
spun
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| v.纺，杜撰，急转身 | |
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147
slewed
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| adj.喝醉的v.杀死，宰杀，杀戮( slay的过去式 )( slew的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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148
disdaining
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| 鄙视( disdain的现在分词 )； 不屑于做，不愿意做 | |
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149
unison
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| n.步调一致，行动一致 | |
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150
palatial
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| adj.宫殿般的，宏伟的 | |
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151
tabloid
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| adj.轰动性的，庸俗的；n.小报，文摘 | |
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152
intercepted
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| 拦截( intercept的过去式和过去分词 )； 截住； 截击； 拦阻 | |
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153
deadpan
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| n. 无表情的 | |
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154
attachment
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| n.附属物，附件；依恋；依附 | |
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155
snarled
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| v.（指狗）吠，嗥叫， （人）咆哮( snarl的过去式和过去分词 )；咆哮着说，厉声地说 | |
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156
charisma
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| n.(大众爱戴的)领袖气质，魅力 | |
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157
hysterical
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| adj.情绪异常激动的，歇斯底里般的 | |
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158
lieutenant
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| n.陆军中尉，海军上尉；代理官员，副职官员 | |
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159
timing
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| n.时间安排，时间选择 | |
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160
clogged
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| （使）阻碍( clog的过去式和过去分词 )； 淤滞 | |
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161
stencil
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| v.用模版印刷；n.模版；复写纸，蜡纸 | |
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162
travelogue
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| n.游记；旅行见闻 | |
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163
flop
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| n.失败(者)，扑通一声；vi.笨重地行动，沉重地落下 | |
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164
frustrating
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| adj.产生挫折的，使人沮丧的，令人泄气的v.使不成功( frustrate的现在分词 )；挫败；使受挫折；令人沮丧 | |
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165
skunk
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| n.臭鼬，黄鼠狼；v.使惨败，使得零分；烂醉如泥 | |
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