The Kill-off Part 8

I washed thoroughly: my hands, wrists and those portions of my face that were not covered by beard. It was probably as clean as I have been during the thirty years of my existence.

I returned to the office, where Mr. Pavlov complimented me reservedly.

"Looks like you got a few coats of rust off. Why don't you chop that d.a.m.ned hair and them whiskers off, too? Ought to, by G.o.d, or else buy yourself a bedsheet and sandals."

"Listen, Mr. Pavlov," I said. "I will do whatever you say. If you would like to give me the money for a barber-or a bedsheet and sandals-along with the price of a meal, I will-"

"I ain't giving you a nickel," said Mr. Pavlov. "I'll take you to a restaurant and pay your check myself."

I protested that he was being unfair: it was implicit in our agreement that I should spend the money on liquor. He grunted, studying me with thoughtfully narrowed eyes.

"Shut up a minute," he said. "G.o.ddammit, if I give you another drink, will you shut up and let me think?"

"Listen, Mr. Pavlov," I said. "For another drink, I would-would-"

I broke off helplessly. What wouldn't one do when he is slowly being crucified?

I s.n.a.t.c.hed the drink from his hand. I took it at a gulp, noting that he had left the bottle on the desk in front of him.

"Huh-uh," he said, as I extended my gla.s.s. "Not now, anyways. I got something to say to you, and I want to be d.a.m.ned sure you understand."

"Listen," I said. "I understand much better when I'm drinking. The more I drink the more my understanding increases."

"Shut up!" There was a whip-like crack to his voice. "Now, here's what I was going to say, and you'd better not repeat it, see? Don't ever peep a word about it to anyone. Suppose I was to give you something of mine. Kind of let you take it away from me. I mean, n.o.body would know that it was you that took it, but-G.o.ddammit, are you listening to me?"

"Certainly, certainly, yessir," I said. "If you were thinking about pouring a drink for yourself, Mr. Pavlov, I will take one, too."

"Dammit, this is important to you," he said. "There'd be a nice piece of change in it for you, and all you'd have to do is-" He broke off with a disgusted grunt. "h.e.l.l! I must be going out of my mind to even think about it."

"You appear very depressed, Mr. Pavlov," I said. "Allow me to pour a drink for you."

"Pour one for yourself," he snarled, with unaccustomed naivete. "Then you're gettin' the h.e.l.l out of here to a restaurant."

It was a quart bottle, and it was practically full.

I picked it up, and ran.

I hated to do it, naturally. It was not only ungrateful, but also shortsighted; in eating the golden egg, figuratively speaking, I was destroying a future hen. I did it because I could not help myself. Because it was another nothing-else-to-do.

When a man is drowning, he s.n.a.t.c.hes at bottles.

I ran, making a wild leap toward the door. And I tripped over the doorsill, the bottle shot from my hands, and it and I crashed resoundingly against the ballroom floor.

I scrambled forward on my stomach, began to lap at one of the precious puddles of liquor.

Mr. Pavlov suddenly kicked me in the tail, sent me scooting across the polished boards. He yanked me to my feet, eyes raging, and jerked me around facing him.

"A fine son-of-a-b.i.t.c.h you turned out to be! Now, get to h.e.l.l out of here! Get out fast, and take plenty of time about showing up again."

"Certainly," I said. "But listen, listen, Mr. Pavlov. I-"

"Listen, h.e.l.l! I said to clear out!"

"I will, I am," I said, backing out of his reach. "But please listen, Mr. Pavlov. I will be glad to a.s.sist you in a fake holdup. More than glad. You have been very good to me, and I will welcome the opportunity to do something for you."

He had been moving toward me, threateningly. Now he stopped dead in his tracks, his face flushing, eyes wavering away from mine.

"What the h.e.l.l you talkin' about?" he said, with attempted roughness. "You better not go talkin' that way to anyone else!"

"You know I won't," I said. "I don't blame you for distrusting me after the exhibition I just put on, but-"

He snorted half-heartedly. He said, "You're crazy. Crazy and drunk. You don't know what you're sayin'."

"Yes, sir," I said. "And I don't know what you said. I didn't hear you. I wasn't listening."

I turned and left. I went out onto the boardwalk, wondering if this after all was not the original sin, the one we all suffer for: the failure to attribute to others the motives which we claim for ourselves. The inexcusable failure to do so.

True, I was not very prepossessing, either in appearance or actions. I was not, but neither was he. He was every bit as unrea.s.suring in his way as I was in mine. And as you are in yours. We were both disguised. The materials were different, but they had all come from the same loom. My eccentricity and drunkenness. His roughness, rudeness and outright brutality.

We had to be disguised. Both of us, all of us. Yet obvious as the fact was, he would not see it. He would not look through my guise, as I had looked through his, to the man beneath. He would not look through his own, which would have done practically as well.

It was too bad, and he would be punished for it-as who is not?

And I was in need of more-much, much more-to drink.

Down at the end of the walk, a girl was standing at the rail, looking idly out to sea. I squinted my eyes, shaded them with my hand. After a moment, she turned her head a little, and I recognized her as the vocalist with the band.

She was clad in bathing garb, but a robe was draped over the rail at her side. It seemed reasonable to a.s.sume that the robe would have a pocket in it, and that the pocket would have something in it also.

I walked down to where she stood. I harrumphed for her attention and executed a low bow, toppling momentarily to one knee in the process.

"Listen, listen," I said. "How beautiful are thy feet with shoes, O, my princess. Thy-"

I broke off abruptly, noting that her feet were bare. I glanced at her midriff, and began anew: "'Thy navel is like-'"

"You get away from me, you nasty thing, you!" she said. "Go on, now! I don't give money to beggars."

"But who else would you give money to?" I said. "Not, surely, to people with money."

"You leave me alone!" Her voice rose. "I'll scream if you don't!"

"Very well," I said, and I moved back up the boardwalk. "Oh, verily, very well. But beware the night, madam. Lo, and a ho-ho-ho, beware the night."

The warning seemed justified. Molded as she was, the night could hold quite as much danger for her as it did delight.

Ahead of me, I saw Mr. Pavlov come out of the pavilion and swagger away toward town. Studying him, his highheld head, the proud set of his shoulders, the hurt I had felt over his caution in talking to me was suddenly no more.

He had behaved thusly I knew-I knew-because he actually did not intend to perpetrate a fake holdup. He neither intended to nor would. He might think the contrary, go so far as to plan the deed. But he would never actually go through with it.

He was as incapable of dishonesty, of anything but absolute uprightness, as I was of sobriety.

He turned and entered the post-office building. I crossed to the other side of the street, continued on for another block and suddenly lurched, and remained lurched, against a corner lamppost.

People pa.s.sed by, grinning and laughing at me. I closed my eyes, and murmured alternate threats and pleadings to the Lord World.

Halfway down the block, there was a grocery store. Mr. Kossmeyer, the lawyer who comes here every summer, was parked in front of it, loading some groceries into the back seat of his car.

I pushed myself away from the lamppost, and stepped down into the gutter. I walked down to where Mr. Kossmeyer was, and tapped him on the shoulder.

He jumped, cursed and banged his head. Then, he turned around and saw that it was I.

"Oh, h.e.l.lo, Ganny," he said. "I mean-uh-Judas."

"Oh, that's all right, Mr. Kossmeyer," I laughed. "I know I'm not really Judas. That was just a crazy notion I had."

"Well, that's fine. Glad you've snapped out of it," Mr. Kossmeyer said.

"I'm really Noah," I said. "That's who I really am, Mr. Kossmeyer."

"I see," he said. "Well, you shouldn't have to travel very far to round up your animals."

He sounded rather wary. Disinterested. His hand moved toward the front door of his car.

"Listen, Mr. Kossmeyer," I said. "Listen. I'm accepting contributions for an ark, materials or their monetary equivalent. Planks are a dollar each, Mr. Kossmeyer."

"They ain't the only thing," said Mr. Kossmeyer. "So is a quart of wine."

He seemed a lot smarter than he used to be. Summer a year ago, I sold him a reservation to the Last Supper.

"Listen, Mr. Kossmeyer, listen," I said. "All the world's a stage, and all the actors, audience; and the wise man casteth no stink bombs. Doesn't that stir you, Mr. Kossmeyer?" I said.

"Only to a limited degree," said Mr. Kossmeyer. "Only to a limited degree, Noah. I feel nothing at all in the area of my hip pocket."

"Listen, Mr. Kossmeyer, listen," I said. "They've got a new resident out in The City of Wonderful People. They've got a man that's TRULY HUMBLE. He's TRULY HUMBLE, but he always acted like the snootiest, most stuck-up man in town. You know why he acted that way? You know why, Mr. Kossmeyer? Because he was so lonesome for company. The planks are really only ninety-eight cents, Mr. Kossmeyer, and I can bring back the change from a dollar."

"A little more finesse," said Mr. Kossmeyer. "A little more english on the cue ball."

"Listen," I said. "Listen, Mr. Kossmeyer. I'm thinking about digging him up, and putting him on television. There ought to be millions in it, don't you think so? A TRULY HUMBLE man, just think of it, Mr. Kossmeyer!"

"I think I'll drive you down to the library," said Mr. Kossmeyer, "and lead you to the history section."

"I could put falsies on him, Mr. Kossmeyer," I said. "I could teach him to sing and dance. I could-listen, Mr. Kossmeyer, listen, listen. There's a couple of other new residents out in The City of Wonderful People. They're MOTHER AND FATHER, and they're the most wonderful of all. Listen, Mr. Kossmeyer, listen. They're DUTIFUL AND LOVING PARENTS, they're G.o.dFEARING AND LOYAL, they're HONEST and KINDLY and STEADFAST and GENEROUS and MERCIFUL and TOLERANT and WISE and-"

"What the h.e.l.l they got, for G.o.d's sake?" said Mr. Kossmeyer. "A tombstone or a billboard?"

"Listen, Mr. Kossmeyer," I said. "Listen. It's the teensiest stone you ever saw. Not much bigger than a cigarette package. I figure that fellow who writes on the heads of pins must have done the inscription. It's practically impossible to read it, Mr. Kossmeyer. Virtually impossible. They've got all those virtues, yet no one can see them. You know why it's that way? You know why, Mr. Kossmeyer? Listen, listen, listen. It's supposed to be symbolic. It's symbolic, Mr. Kossmeyer, and I just remembered you can get a pretty good grade of plank for-"

"Listen, Noah, listen, listen," said Mr. Kossmeyer. "Which is the shortest way to that building-supply store?"

7: HATTIE.

I guess I just don't think no more. Not no real thinking, only little old keyhole kind.

Reckon you know what I mean. Reckon you know what it does to a body. May be a mighty big room, but you sure ain't going to see much of it. And you keep looking through that keyhole long enough, nothing ain't never going to look big to you.

Get to where that eye of yours just won't spread out.

Used to think pretty tolerable, way back when, long long time ago. Back when Mr. Doctor was talking to me and teaching me, and telling me stuff. Seemed like I was just thinking all the time, and thinking more all the time. Big thinking. Almost could fee! my brain getting bigger. Then, we comes here and that was the end of that and the beginning of the other.

Mr. Doctor stopped; stopped himself from pushing me on, and stopped me from pushing. Just wouldn't do, he said. Got to be in a certain place, so I got to fit in that place. Don't do nothing that would maybe look like I don't belong in that place. Just sink down in it, and don't never raise my head above it.

Too bad and he sure hates it, Mr. Doctor said. But that's the way it's got to be. And what good's it going to do me, he said, filling my head full of a lot of stuff I wasn't never going to use?

Guess he right, all right. Anyways, he stop with me. Me, I didn't put up no fuss about it. Catch me arguing with Mr. Doctor. Never did it but the once, long long time ago, and maybe that used all my arguing up. Took all my fighting for the one battle, maybe. And maybe I just didn't see no call to fight.

Don't work up no sweat going down hill. Awful easy thing to do, and that little old keyhole at the bottom, it don't bother you at all.

Can't think no more. Ain't got the words for it. Mr. Doctor, he tell me one time back when he was telling me things, he tell me the mind can't go no farther than a person's 'cabulary. You got to have the words or you can't talk, and you got to have 'em or you can't think. No words, no thinking. Just kind of feeling.

Me, I get hungry. I get cold and hot. I get scared, and sick. Mostly, I get scared and sick. Scared-sick, kind of together. And not doing no real thinking about it. Just feeling it and wishing it wasn't, and knowing it's going to go right on being. A lot worse maybe.

Because he, that boy, he acting nice now. He trying to pretend being friendly. And that boy, he act that way, you sure better watch out for him. He sure about to get you then.

He come out in the kitchen other night after supper. Right there with me before I know it. And he smile and sweet-talk, and say he going to help me with the dishes.

"Go 'way," I said. "You lea' me alone, hear?"

"Well, we'll let the dishes go," he said. "Let's go in your bedroom, mother. I have something I want to talk to you about."

"Huh-uh. No, suh," I said. "You ain't gettin' me in no bedroom."

"I'm sure you don't mean that," he said. "You're my mother. Every mother is interested in her son's problems."

I go in the bedroom with him. Scared not to. He got his mind made up, and that boy make up his mind, you sure better not get in his way.

Meanest boy in the world, that boy. Just plain lowdown rattlesnake mean.

I get on bed. Get way back against the wall with my legs drawn up under me. He sit down on chair at side of bed. He takes out a cigarette, and then he looks at me, and asks if it's all right he could smoke.

I don't say nothing. Just keep my eyes on him, just watching and waiting.

"Oh, excuse me, mother," he said. "Allow me."

He stick a cigarette at me. He strike a match and hold it out, and me I put that cigarette in my mouth and puff it lit. Had to. Scared to death if I don't, and scared if I do.