by Boris Vian
"You mean that in your opinion religious books aren't serious?"
He licked his lips.
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"Don't be saying I said something which I didn't say."
I laughed heartily
"No need to get mad, that's what I think too."
"In that case, let me give some advice. Don't let anybody else know it, and go to church every Sunday, cause otherwise you're not going to have many customers."
"Oh alright," I said, "so I'll go to church."
"Here," he said, handing me a sheet of paper, "Check that. It's the accounting for last month. It's pretty simple. You get all your books from the main office. All you've got to do is keep a record, in triplicate, of what you get and what you sell. They come to collect twice a month. You get paid by check, a commission on sales."
"Let me see it," I said.
I took the form and sat down on a low counter, cluttered up with books the customers had taken off the shelves and had been too rushed to put back.
"What's there for a guy to do in this town?" I asked him.
"Not a damn thing." There are the girls in the drug-store across the street, and you can get some Bourbon in Ricardo's, couple of blocks up the street."
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I found him pleasant, with his brusque way of talking.
"How long have you been living here?"
"Five years," he said. "Still got five togo."
"And then?"
"You're too damn nosy."
"Don't blame me. Why'd you say you've got five more to go. I didn't ask you."
His mouth became less harsh, and he crinkled his eyes.
"I guess you're right. O.K., then-five more years and I quit."
"What are you going to do?"
"Write," he said. "Write best-sellers. Nothing but best-sellers. Historical novels; novels where colored men sleep with white women and don't get lynched; novels about pure young girls who manage to grow up unblemished by the vicious small-town life which surrounds them."
He chuckled.
"Yep, best-sellers. And then some very daring and original novels. It doesn't require much to be daring in this part of the world. All you've got to do is write about things everybody knows, and take a little trouble in doing it."
"You'll get there," I said.
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"Sure I'll get there. I've got six of 'em ready right now."
"Never tried to get them published?" "I'm not pals with any publisher, and I haven't got enough dough to pay for them myself."
"So what are you going to do?" "Well in five years I'll have the money." "I guess you'll make it," I told him. There was plenty of work from then on, in spite of the store's uncomplicated administrative arrangements. I had to bring the order lists up to date, and then Hansen, as the former manager was called, gave me all sorts of tips about the customers, a certain number of whom came regularly to see him and talk about books. About all they knew about literature they learned from the "Saturday Review" or from the book reviews of the paper published in the State capital, which had a circulation of about sixty thousand. For the time being I did no more than listen to them talk with Hansen, trying to remember their names and their faces, since in a bookstore, more than anywhere else, its damn important to greet the customer with "Good Morning, Mr. Soandso" as soon as he comes in the door.
Hansen fixed me up with a place to live
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too. I took over the two rooms which he had been renting just above the drugstore across the street. He'd loaned me a couple of dollars, enough to stay at the hotel for three days, and he was considerate enough to invite me to eat with him an average of twice a day, thus keeping me from running up a big monetary debt with him, since I had no one else to borrow from. He was a nice guy. I was somewhat concerned about this plan of his to write best-sellers : you don't write best-sellers just like that, even if you do have dough. Maybe he did have talent. For his sake, I hoped so.
On the third day, he took me to Ricardo's to have a drink before lunch. It was ten o'clock, and he was leaving in the afternoon.
It was the last meal we were going to have together. After that I would have to handle the customers by myself, and the town too. I had to make good. Running into Hansen had been a stroke of luck. With my luck I might have lived a couple of days, peddling something or other, but this way I was getting off to a good start.
Ricardo's was the usual bar and grill, somewhat clean, thoroughly ugly. There was a funny combination of smells about the
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place, like doughnuts fried in onions, if that were possible. A character behind the bar was absorbed in a newspaper.
"What'll you have?" he asked, automatically.
"A couple of Bourbons," Hansen ordered, looking at me questioningly.
I nodded.
The barkeep gave us two big glasses with ice and straws.
"I always take it like that," Hansen apologized. "Don't drink it if you don't want to."
"Try anything once," I said.
If you've never drunk iced Bourbon with a straw, you can't imagine what an effect it has. Like a stream of fire on your palate. Sweet fire, something terrible.
"Good stuff!" I gasped.
I caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror. I looked rather dazed. I hadn't been doing much drinking lately. Hansen broke into a laugh.
"Don't let it get you down. It won't take you long to get used to it, unfortunately I guess. As for me," he continued, "I guess I'll have to break in the bartender at the next bar I do my drinking at."
"I'm sorry you're leaving," I said.
I Spit on Your Graves
He laughed.
"If I stayed, you would have to leave. I think it's better that I go. More than five years - Christ, that's a long time."
He finished his drink with one long sip, and ordered another.
"You'll manage, alright." He looked me up and down. "You're O.K. There's something about you I can't put my finger on. Your voice."
I just smiled. He was too damn discerning.
"Your voice is too full. You don't happen to be a singer?"
"Oh, I sing sometimes, just for fun."
I hadn't been doing any more singing. 1 did before, before the business with the kid. I would sing to my own accompaniment on the guitar. I could sing some blues, and some old New Orleans songs, and some melodies I made up myself for the guitar, but I didn't feel like playing any more. What I needed was money. Lots of it. To carry out my plans.
"The women will all fall for you with that voice of yours," Hansen said.
I shrugged.
"Not interested?"
He gave me a hearty slap on the back.
"Just stroll over towards the drugstore. -9-
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You'll find them all there. They've got a club in this town. The bobby-soxers' club. You know the girls, - every last one of them with their flashy sox and sloppy sweaters. And they all write fan letters to Frank Sinatra. The drugstore is their hangout. You must have noticed. No, I guess not, you've kept yourself cooped up in the store every day."
I took another Bourbon for myself. It went down into my arms, my legs, my whole body.
Down there, we didn't have any bobby-soxers. I wouldn't have minded. Girls of fifteen, with little pointed breasts under their tight sweaters - they do it on purpose, the little witches. And their socks, bright yellow and red and green sox, sticking up out of their flat-heeled shoes. And flair skirts, and round knees. And always sitting on the ground with their legs spread so you could see their flesh undies. Yes, I liked their looks, the bobby-soxers.
Hansen was looking at me.
"They all will," he said. "You don't have to worry about a thing. They know lots of places to take you to."
"Don't be such a pig," I said.
"Oh, no," he sa
id, "I meant places to take you dance and have a drink."
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He smiled. It must have been all over my face that I was interested.
"They're funny' he said. "They'll come to see you in the store."
"What would they want there?" "Oh, they'll buy pictures of movie stars, and, quite by accident, of course, all the books on psychoanalysis. Medical books, I mean. They all seem to be studying medicine." "Alright," I muttered, "We'll see." And now I really had to appear indifferent, because Hansen turned to another subject. Then, when we had finished lunch, he went away about two in the afternoon. I was left alone in front of the store.
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Boris Vian II
I must have been there about two weeks when I began to feel bored. All that time I hadn't left the store. The sales were going fine. The advertising took care of everything in advance, and the books sold. Every week the main office sent, together with the books on consignment, a mass of illustrated leaflets and throwaways, and display material to be put in a good spot in the window, under the book in question or in full view. Most of the time, all I had to do was read the blurb on the jacket, open the book at four or five different spots to get a good idea of its contents, good enough, in any case, to give a spiel that would take in the average customer especially after the effect of the illustrated jacket, the folders, the picture of the author with the short biographical sketch. It costs a lot to put out a book, and all the dressing is for a good purpose - it shows clearly too that most people don't care about getting good books : what they really want is to have read the book recommended by their club, the book of the moment, and they don't give a rap about the contents.
I would get an enormous amount of
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certain books, with a note recommending a window display, and quantities of throw-away s. I put a pile of them next to the cash-register and slipped one into every book sold. Nobody refuses a book-circular on shiny paper, and the few blurbs they carry are just the ticket for the sort of readers you find in this town. The main office used this system for all books of a somewhat sexy nature, and they were usually all gone a few hours after I displayed them.
To tell the truth, I wasn't really bored. But I was beginning to get the hang of the routine in the place, and I had time to think about other things. That's what bothered me. Things were going too well.
The weather was nice. It was river, toward the end of summer. The dust hung in the air over the town. Down along the it must have been cool under the trees. I hadn't been out once since I'd come, and I didn't know anything about the surrounding country-side. I felt that I needed a change of air. But one thing really bothered me. I wanted a woman.
That afternoon when I pulled over the collapsible iron-latticework at five o'clock, I didn't go back into the store to work as usual, under the fluorescent lights. I took my hat
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and, carrying my jacket on my arm, I went straight across the street to the drugstore. I had a room upstairs. There were three customers in the place, a boy of about fifteen and two girls of about the same age. They looked at me absently and turned back to their milk shakes. The very sight of the shakes gave me the shakes. Fortunately I had a good remedy for that right in my jacket-pocket.
I sat down at the counter, a seat away from the tallest of the two girls. The waitress, a homely looking brunette gave me a vague look.
"What have you got besides milk drinks?'
"Lemon and lime," she suggested, "Grapefruit juice, tomato juice, coke?"
"Grapefruit juice," I said, "and don't fill the glass up, either."
I felt in my jacket-pocket, and unscrewed the flask-cap.
"No liquor here," the waitress objected meekly.
"It's alright. It's my medicine," I gave a laugh. "Don't worry about your license."
I handed her a dollar. I had gotten my check that morning. Ninety bucks a week. Clem sure knew the right people. She gave me my change, and I left her a dime tip.
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Grapefruit juice and bourbon isn't exactly a drink, but its better than nothing. I felt better, -1 'd snap out of it. I was snapping out of it. The three kids were looking at me. For kids like that at twenty-six I was an old man. I smiled at the little blond. She had on a sky-blue sweater with white stripes, no collar, the sleeves pushed up above the elbow, and little white sox in thick crepe-soled shoes. She was cute. Nice breasts. Probably firm to the touch, like ripe plums. She didn't have a brassiere on and the nipples stuck out through the fabric. She smiled back at me.
"Hot, isn't it?" I said to break the ice.
"Awful," she said, stretching herself.
There were sweat-stains under her armpits. That did something to me. I got up and slipped a nickel into the slot of the jukebox near the window.
"Feel like dancing?" I said, coming over to her.
"It'll probably kill me," she said.
She pressed up against me so hard I lost my breath. She smelled like a freshly washed baby. She was slender, and I could reach her right shoulder with my right hand. I reached out with my arm, and slid my fingers in just under her breast. The others had been watching us, and they danced too. It was the
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hit-song "Shoo Fly Pie" with vocal by Dinah Shore. The girl hummed the melody as she danced. The waitress had lifted her nose out of her magazine when we started dancing, but turned back to it after a minute or so.
She didn't have a thing on under her sweater. I could feel it right away. I was glad when the record ended. Another two minutes and I wouldn't have been able to control myself any more. She let me go, went back to her seat, and looked at me.
"You don't dance at all bad for somebody as old as you are."
"It was my grandpop who taught me," I said.
"You can tell that easy," she returned the kidding, "Not the least bit hep."
"You won't find me so handy with your jive, but I bet there's plenty of other tricks I could teach you."
She dropped her eyelashes and looked at me through half closed eyes.
"Grown up tricks?"
"That depends on you."
"I can guess what you're leading up to..." she said.
"I'm not so sure you do. Do any of you have a guitar?"
"You play the guitar?" said the boy.
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He seemed to wake up all of a sudden.
"A little," I said.
"Then you sing too," the other girl said.
"A little."
"He's got a voice just like Cab Calloway's," the first one put in.
She seemed to be a little mad at seeing the others talk to me. I'd better take it easy.
"Take me somewhere where I can get my hands on a guitar and I'll show you what I can do. I don't claim to be the father of the blues himself, but I can play them."
She looked straight at me.
"O.K." she said, "we'll go to B.J.'s."
"He's got a guitar?"
"She's got a guitar, Betty Jane."
"It could have stood for Barney, Junior." I exclaimed.
"Yeah," she said. "She lives over here, come on!"
"Right away?' the boy said.
"Why not?" I said. "She's got to be convinced."
"O.K." the boy said, "My name is Dick. She's Jicky."
He pointed to the girl I'd danced with.
"I'm Judy," said the other girl.
"And I'm Lee Anderson," I said. "I run
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the bookstore across the street."
"We know," said Jicky. "Everybody has known it for the past two weeks.
"That interested?"
"Sure thing," said Judy. "We could use some men in this town."
The four of us went out in spite of Dick's objections. They looked rath
er excited. I still had enough whiskey left to hop them up a little more if necessary.
"I'm all yours" I said when we were outside.
Dick's roadster, an ancient Chrysler, was parked at the curb. He took the two girls up front with him, and I made myself comfortable in the back.
"How do you kids keep yourselves busy," I asked.
The car took off smoothly, and Jicky got on her knees on the front seat, turned toward me.
"We work," she said.
"Schoolwork?" I suggested.
"That and other things."
"If you come back here," I said, raising my voice a little because of the wind, "it'd be easier to talk."
"Maybe," she murmured.
She again lowered her eyelids.
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She must have picked up the trick in some movie.
"Afraid to get in a bad spot?"
"No-o" she said.
I grabbed her by the shoulders and swung her over the seat.
"Hey you," said Judy, turning around, "that's a funny way of talking."
I was shifting Jicky over to my left, and was maneuvering to grab her in the right spots. She sure was something to grab hold of. She seemed to know what was cooking. I put her down on the leather seat, and put my arm around her neck.
"Quiet now," I said, "Or I'll give you a spanking."
"What have you got in that bottle?" she asked.
1 had my jacket on my knees. She slid her hand in and, I don't know whether she did it on purpose or not, but she hit the right spot.
"Hold tight," I said, drawing out her hand. "I'll give you some."
I screwed the metal cap off and offered her the flask. She took a good slug.
"Leave some for us," hollered Dick.
He was looking at us in the rear-view mirror.
"Be a fellow and let me have some, Lee".
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"Don't worry, there's plenty more."
He steered with one hand, and stretched out the other towards us.
"Take it easy, won't you," Judy objected. "Don't land us in a ditch."
"Don't be a wet blanket. Don't you ever let yourself go?"