Part V
Strike
I went by the field of the slothful, and
by the vineyard of the man void of
understanding;
And, lo, it was all grown over with
thorns, and nettles had covered the face
thereof, and the stone wall thereof was
broken down.
Proverbs 24: 30, 31
HARRY looked at his son as he lay on the table playing with a diaper. He covered his head with it and giggled. Harry watched him wave the diaper for a few seconds, He looked at his sons penis. He stared at it then touched it. He wondered if an 8 month old kid could feel anything different there. Maybe it felt the same no matter where you touched him. It got hard sometimes when he had to piss, but he didnt think that meant anything. His hand was still on his sons penis when he heard his wife walking into the room. He pulled his hand away. He stood back. Mary took the clean diaper from the babys hand and kissed his stomach. Harry watched her rub the babys stomach with her cheek, her neck brushing his penis occasionally. It looked as if she were going to put it in her mouth. He turned away. His stomach knotted, a slight nausea starting. He went into the living room. Mary dressed the baby and put him in the crib. Harry heard her jostling the crib. Heard the baby sucking on his bottle. The muscles and nerves of Harrys body twisted and vibrated. He wished to krist he could take the sounds and shove them up her ass. Take the goddamn kid and jam it back up her snatch. He picked up the t v guide, looked at his watch, slid his finger down the column of numbers, twice, then turned on the set and twirled the dials. In a few minutes his wife came into the room, stood alongside Harry and rubbed the back of his neck. What show you watchin? I dont know, twisting his head and leaning away from her hand. She walked over to the coffee table, took a cigarette from the pack on the table and sat on the couch. When Harry shook her hand from his neck she felt disappointed for a second, but it passed. She understood. Harry was funny sometimes. Probably worrying about the job, what with the chance of there being a strike and everything. Thats probably what it is.
Harry tried to ignore the presence of his wife but no matter how he stared at the t v, or covered the side of his head with his hand, he was still conscious of her being there. There! Sitting on the couch. Looking at him. Smiling. For krists sake, what thefuck she smilin at? Got hot fuckin pants again. Always breakin my balls. Wish takrist there was somethin good on t v. Why cant they have fights on Tuesday nights. They think people only wanna look at fights on Fridays? What the fuck ya smilin at?
Harry yawned, turning his head and trying to hide his face with his hand—Mary said nothing, just smiled— trying to interest himself in the show, whatever it was; trying to stay awake until she went to sleep. If only the fuckin bitch would go tabed. Married over a year and you could count the times she went to sleep first. He looked at the t v; smoked, and ignored Mary. He yawned again unable to hide it it came so quickly. He tried to swallow it in the middle, tried to cough or some damn thing, but all he could do was let his mouth hang open and groan. Its gettin kindda late Harry, why dont we go tabed? You go. Im gonna have anotha cigarette. She thought for a moment of having another one too, but figured she/d better not. Harry got very aggravated, when he was like this, if you bothered him too much. She got up, stroking the back of his neck as she passed— Harry jerking his head forward—and went into the bedroom.
Harry knew she would still be awake when he went to bed. The tv was still on but Harry wasnt watching it. Eventually the cigarette was too short to allow him to take another drag. He dropped it in the ashtray.
Mary rolled over onto her back when Harry came into the room. She said nothing, but watched him undress—Harry turning his back toward her and piling his clothes on the chair by the bed—Mary looking at the hair on the base of his spine, thinking of the dirt ingrained in the callouses on his hands and under his finger nails. Harry sat on the edge of the bed for a moment, but it was inevitable: he would have to lie down next to her. He lowered his head to the pillow then lifted his legs onto the bed, Mary holding the covers up so he could slide his legs nnder. She pulled the covers up to his chest and leaned on her side facing him. Harry turned on his side facing away from her. Mary rubbed his neck, his shoulders, then his back. Harry wished takrist she/d go to sleep and leave him alone. He felt her hand going lower down his back, hoping nothing would happen; hoping he could fall asleep (he had thought that after he got married he would get used to it); wishing he could turn over and slap her across the goddamn face and tell her to stop—krist, how many times had he thought of smashing her head. He tried thinking of something so he could ignore her and what she was doing and what was happening. He tried to concentrate on the fight he saw on t v last friday where Pete Laughlin beat the shit out of some fuckin nigga and had him bleedin all over the face and the ref finally stopped the fight in the 6th and Harry was madashell that he stopped it . . . but still he was conscious of her hand on his thigh. He tried remembering how the boss looked last week when he told him off again—he smiled twistedly—that bastard, he cant shove me around. I tellim right to his face. Vice President. Shit, He knows he cant fuck with me. Id have the whole plant shut down in 5 minutes—the caressing hand still there. He could control nothing. The fuckin bitch. Why cant she just leave me alone. Why dont she goaway somewhere with that fuckin kid. Id like ta rip her cunt right the fuck outta her.
He squeezed his eyes shut so hard they pained then suddenly rolled over on Mary, hitting her on the head with his elbow, squeezing her hand between his legs as he turned, almost breaking her wrist—Mary stunned for a moment, hearing more than feeling his elbow hit her; struggling to free her hand; seeing his body on hers; feeling his weight, his hand groping for her crotch . . . then she relaxed and put her arms around him. Harry fumbled at her crotch anxious and clumsy with anger; wanting to pile drive his cock into her, but when he tried he scratched and burned the head and he instinctively stopped for a second, but his anger and hatred started him lunging and lunging until he finally was all the way in—Mary wincing slightly then sighing—and Harry shoved and pounded as hard as he could, wanting to drive the fucking thing out of the top of her head; wishing he could put on a rubber dipped in iron filings or ground glass and rip her guts out—Mary wrapping her legs around his and tightening her arms around his back, biting his neck, rolling from side to side with excitement as she felt all of his cock going in her again and again—Harry physically numb, feeling neither pain nor pleasure, but moving with the force and automation of a machine; unable now to even formulate a vague thought, the attempt at thought being jumbled by his anger and hatred; not even capable of trying to determine if he was hurting her, completely unaware of the pleasure he was giving his wife; his mind not allowing him to reach the quick climax he wanted so he could roll off and over; unaware that his brutality in bed was the one thing that kept his wife clinging to him and the harder he tried to drive her away, to split her guts with his cock, the closer and tighter she clung to him—and Mary rolled from side to side half faint with excitement, enjoying one orgasm, another, while Harry continued driving and pounding until eventually the semen flowed, Harry continuing with the same rhythm and force, feeling nothing, until his energy drained with the semen and he stopped suddenly, suddenly nauseous with disgust. He quickly rolled off his wife and lay on his side, his back toward her, and gripped the pillow with his hands, almost tearing it, his face buried in it, almost crying; his stomach crawling with nausea; his disgust seeming to wrap itself around him as a snake slowly, methodically and painfully squeezing the life from him, but each time it reached the point where just the slightest more pressure would bring an end to everything: life, misery, pain, it stopped tightening, retained the pressure and Harry just hung there his body alive with pain, his mind sick with disgust. He moaned and Mary reached over and touched his shoulder, her body still tingling. She closed her eyes, her body relaxing, and soon went to sleep, her hand slowly sliding from Harrys shoulder.
Harry could do nothing but endure the nausea and slimy disgust. He wanted to smoke a cigarette, but was afraid, afraid that the slightest movement, even the taking of a deep breath, would cause him to heave his guts up; afraid even to swallow. So he just lay there, a sour taste in his throat; his stomach seeming to be pressuring against his palate; his face still buried in the pillow; his eyes tightly squeezed shut; concentrating on his stomach, trying to think the pressure and foul taste away or, if not, at least control it. He knew, after years of fighting it, losing each time and ending up hanging over a bowl or sink if he was lucky enough to make it there, that this was all he could do. Nothing else would help. Except crying. And he was no longer able to cry. He had many times, locked in a bathroom or on the street after running from the woman he had been with, but now the tears no longer rilled from his eyes, even if he tried relaxing and allowing them to, his eyes just ached, feeling swollen and damp, unrelieved, just as the pressure at his throat remained constant and unrelieved. He just lay there ... if only something would happen. He clutched harder at the pillow; clenched his jaw tighter until a piercing pain in his ear and a spasm in his neck muscles forced him to relax. His body jerked slightly, involuntarily. Nothing broke through or even slightly grayed the darkness; his eyes were shut and his head was jammed in the hemispherical blackness, the boundaries unseen, unfelt, to Harry nonexistent. It was just black.
He tightened the muscles in his toes until they cramped, the pain increasing; trying to concentrate on the pain enough to forget everything else. His toes felt as if they would shatter and his feet started to cramp, then the calfs of his legs, and still he didnt relax his muscles until the pain became unbearable and he wanted to scream and only then he relaxed but the muscles remained tightened and he had to direct all his energy to the relaxing of the muscles before the pain killed him. His calves still ached, though they started to loosen slightly, but his feet felt as if they were going to twist and bend back upon themselves and his toes felt as if they were going to snap. His ears and neck started paining again from the clenching of his jaw-one thing though accomplished, he was no longer aware of the nausea and disgust, of the pressure against his throat and the taste of bile—his ears and neck pained though he was only vaguely aware of it. His calves loosened a little more and slowly the muscles relaxed until his feet and then his toes started to straighten and he then became aware of the ache in his jaw, then that too started slowly to lessen and eventually the cramps and pains disappeared and he loosened his grip slightly on the pillow and lay there, enervated, sweating, feeling for a moment nothing but weakness, then slowly aware of his throat and stomach, the disgust and nausea forcing themselves upon his consciousness again. If something would happen . . . tears pounded against his eyes but couldnt force their way through, something . . . anything . . . krist. jesus fuckin krist. He allowed his eyes to open—the tears still pounding behind his eyes. His eyes focused on the bureau: there were two large knobs, a smaller one above, another large one to the side; a wall. His eyes started to smart from sweat. He wiped his face against the pillow. He turned his head slightly until he could see the ceiling. Now his vision reached to an end. The ceiling was there. The walls were there. No mysteries. Nothing hidden. There was something to be seen. It had an order. His eyes felt better. No longer felt pinched. No longer afraid to look. Now he had to move. The pressure must have gone down. It was still there, but it must have lessened. It must have. Should be able to move. He swallowed . . . again ... his throat burned with the bitterness. He lay completely immobile. Not breathing. Stomach bubbling, trying to erupt. Throat pulsating. Burning. He swallowed again . . . breathed. Shallowly. Eruption subsiding slightly. Throat quieting. Still burning. Swallowed . . . breathed . . . slowly pulled his legs up . . . let them slide over the side of the bed. Sat up slowly. Not breathing. Contracting his nostrils. Sucking air gently between his teeth ... he stood. Rubbed his face . . . went slowly to the parlor. Sat down and lit a cigarette and stared out the window. Smoked. Nothing on the street. No one. Car parked across the street, empty. Lit a second cigarette from the first. Throat burned, but stomach relaxing. Nausea no longer critical. Still there though. Foul. Mouth tasted foul. He sat and smoked. Stared. Eyes damp. Aching. No tears. Dropped the cigarette in the ashtray. Rubbed his face. Went back to bed. Stared at the ceiling until his eyes started to close. If something would happen. What? What? What could happen?? For what? About what? His eyes burned and watered. Couldnt keep them open. His body started to loosen. His head rolled slightly to one side. He adjusted his body. Still hadnt looked at Mary. Hadnt thought of her. His body twitched. He brushed his face against the pillow. He moaned in his halfsleep. Soon he slept.
The Harpies swooped down on Harry and in the darkness under their wings he could see nothing but their eyes: small, and filled with hatred, their eyes laughing at him, mocking him as he tried to evade them, knowing he couldnt and that they could toy with him before they slowly destroyed him. He tried turning his head but it wouldnt move. He tried and tried until it rolled back and forth but still the eyes glared and mocked and the gigantic wings beat faster and faster and the wind whirled around Harry and his body chilled and he could sense their large sharp beaks and feel the tips of feathers as they brushed his face. He tried to slide down the rock but no matter how often he did he was still on the top with the wind whirling and the Harpies screeching, screeching and above the roar of the wind and the screeching he could hear his flesh being ripped from his belly, could hear the sharp tearing sound prick its way into his ears and then he heard his screams and the Harpies slowly, very slowly tore bits of flesh from his belly then slowly tugged as the long strips of flesh were pulled from his body and he yelled and rolled over and over and leaped up and ran, tripped and tumbled down the rock yet he was still on top of the rock and the Harpies still mocked him as they tore the flesh from his belly, his chest, and scraped their beaks on his ribs and suddenly thrust their beaks into his eyes and plucked them from their sockets and he heard the plop, plop of his eyes leaving his head and the screeching of the Harpies increased until he no longer could hear his own screams and he kicked and punched at them yet his body refused to move and all he could do was lie still as they once again, and again, over and over started ripping the flesh from his belly and chest, scraping his ribs and once more plucking the eyes from his head
and he was alone on a street looking, turning slowly around in a circle, looking, looking at nothing. Everything was endless in every direction until there were walls that seemed to be moving on an eccentric rod and the walls came closer together, still rolling in half circles and Harry still turned in a circle and the walls came closer together and Harry yelled and started crying yet it was silent not even the walls making a sound as they approached each other and Harry ran until he hit a wall and was in the middle of the diminishing room and he could feel the slate smoothness of the walls as they touched his arms, the back of his head, his nose, and the wall slowly crushed him
and his eyes rolled and bounced up the hill and Harry stumbled after them trying to find them, picking up stones, pebbles and burrs and trying to force them in the empty sockets and he spit out the stones and yelled as the burrs tore the already bleeding sockets and he continued to stumble up the hill and occasionally the eyes would stop and they would look at each other with a gigantic stare and wait until Harry almost touched them then continued to roll up the hill and Harry jammed two more burrs into the sockets and screamed as they ripped the lids and he screamed louder and louder as he twisted the burrs trying to get them out, his bloodied hands preventing him from getting a firm grip on them and his screams were louder and louder until he finally did scream and he sprang up in bed and opened his eyes waiting years for the wall and the chest of drawers to be recognized.
Mary stirred slightly and Harry held his head with his hands and moaned. The nightmare wasnt always exactly the same but after it was over it always seemed as if it had been. Year after year Harry would bolt up in bed occasio
nally, near dead with terror, trying to shove the weight off his chest so he could breathe and then slowly some familiar object would be seen and he would know he was finally awake. Again his eyes swelled but no tears flowed. He sat for many minutes then slowly lowered his head back to the pillow, wiping his face and head with his hand then covering his eyes with his arm.
Last Exit to Brooklyn Page 9