One to Count Cadence

by James Crumley

  (The night Ell left with Ron Flowers to go to his apartment, after Ron and I had argued about going to Mississippi for the summer project, and he had drawn the switchblade he had carried without using since he was ten, and I called him a nigger, then broke his arm, saying, “I will not be pushed”; after Ell left, saying, “You don’t need me. You always win. You just never lose. I can’t stand that,” and I crying to her back fleeing through the door, “But I thought that was what a man was for,” and my voice echoing in the empty hallway, “was for,” and the past tense striking me like a boot in the face, and the loneliness clawing in on quick feet, not just Ell gone, but the world gone from me, and I screamed into the empty hall again, “But, baby, I’m losing now. Goddamn, I’m losing, and the losers are winning, and goddamn, baby, I don’t know why,” and I cried for a bit while curious fools peeked through cracked and darkened doorways, then I sat in the living room all night, drinking; I was just too damned tired to move.)

  I left the table once to pry open the window, to flee the conditioned air, but found only the stink of the sea’s dumb expanse, the growl of the streets, and a hot breath on my face as some tired mad hound raced toward me through the night.

  “Money can’t buy friendship,” I said to the sweating dog.

  * * *

  After the first quart, we ordered another even though Morning was already as drunk as one man should be. He hadn’t stirred from the table, except to take a leak, and he drank straight from the bottle. I had been as still as he, after trying the window, and may even have been as drunk, but I was silent, counting the blossoms on the flowered wallpaper, while he constantly mumbled to himself, his whispers like bees in the room, his hands flying about his face. And when I wasn’t counting, I was just there. Sad and numb, the way it is when you catch a good one on the jaw and in that time between the fist and the darkness you float away from the world, consciousness unconnected, unanchored by pleasure or pain, just ether dissipating in the vacuum, tumbling through fire-streaked skies. But Morning’s voice, now loud, grasped me from the whirling peace, sat me back on earth:

  “Hey, man, you know what that mother said?”

  “Who? What? No,” I said, moving over to the bed, perhaps to feign sleep. I didn’t care what any mother said.

  “That crooked fucker,” he grunted, “that head Dick Tracy.”

  “No,” I said, my eyes closed, drifting.

  “No, what?”

  “No, I don’t know what he said, and I don’t much give a damn.”

  “Oh, yeah. Well, he said that broad was a Billy Boy, the one at the house. What a bunch of shit.” He slapped the table.

  “Huh?”

  “The broad. The mother said she was a Billy Boy queer chomping on my root, man.” He hit the table top again.

  “So what. Who gives a shit. Queer, smear. Go away.”

  “I give a shit, that’s who,” he said, now hitting the table with his fist. “I give a shit. But it wasn’t.”

  She had been a big broad, and could have been. I’d seen Billy Boys who looked more like women than men, and I wanted to go to sleep, so I said, “Could have been.”

  I thought he was coming for me, which woke me up, but he just sat at the table, pounding it until I made him quit, shouting kill the mother-fucker until I quieted him with a weak drink from the second bottle, which the bellhop showed up with in the nick of time. He blubbered until I asked him what was wrong.

  I asked; he took the rest of the night to tell me; I shouldn’t have asked.

  Historical Note 2

  I can only tell the story that Joe Morning told me. There might be some advantage in trying to re-create his voice, except that he was so drunk that night he seemed to have lost his voice, the voice I knew, the intelligent, articulate voice which he could usually maintain, which he had maintained on other nights even as he fell drunk to the floor. But not this night. He mumbled, coughed, laughed, perhaps even lied. His words ran in confused flight from his mouth, the truth pouring out of his head like wine from a broken pitcher. He told the story without any sort of order, repeating himself, skipping about in time, across place. Unless you knew him as I did, his story, told in his words, would only confuse you, so I’ve taken the historian’s liberty of retelling it as I know it. There are some disadvantages to this method, agreed; it would be easy to twist this method to my own purposes and, of course, there is some twisting always going on, but please accept it, as one accepts Gibbon on Rome, Carr on the Soviet Union, Prescott on the conquest of Mexico. Krummel on Joe Morning. As this is my truth, not the truth; take it with a grain of bitter salt in your beer.

  * * *

  He called himself Linda Charles, and Joe Morning first saw him (her?) in a nightclub in San Francisco. The other men performing in the show were professionally good, but obviously men, betrayed by a walk too exaggerated, a hand too strong, a wig as stiff as frosting on a mannequin’s head. But when Linda Charles walked out to sing, long blond hair, real hair instead of a wig, sweeping down and back across her white shoulders, slim, firm legs swinging beneath a simple green silk sheath, a voice in the club, dim behind Morning, said in drunken awe, “My God, that’s no man.” Linda Charles smiled a woman’s smile, enchanted with flattery, at the voice. Then she clapped her hands, stomped a delicate foot, and roared into a blues arrangement of “Saint James Infirmary” in a fine husky contralto. The green high heel behind her, her hands clasped in front, then a passionate shake of the head would send the blond hair out of her face in a shining ripple down across her round shoulders.

  Morning felt a vague, guilty excitement heat the drinks in his belly, as probably did most of the men in the audience. The forbidden thing: taking on the trappings of woman, imitating the beauty of woman. And with the beauty, the forbidden wisdom, the possibility of being a receptacle for the seed, being the gift rather than the giver, possessing a firm lovely breast for your own, a slim silken leg which must ache with pleasure as it moves against its mate. Morning started to rise, but smart enough not to betray his fright, fearing the fear the fright might betray, he stayed through to the end.

  But when he left, the perfume of fear followed him, and he took his already generalized guilt, too, and perhaps mistook the one for the other. He had been punished so much, he must be guilty of something. Perhaps this? Who knew?

  * * *

  During his junior year of college, Joe Morning had been sitting on a car fender in front of his fraternity house, drunk, watching, but not taking part in, a springtime panty raid on a nearby girls’ dorm. He could act the part of the amused observer because in his basement room in the frat house lay a drunk coed from the very dorm being raided, naked but for her loafers. Earlier in the evening he had, with his silver tongue and a pint of Southern Comfort, persuaded the girl to climb into his ground level window. And now, fresh fucked and smiling, he had come out to investigate the noise.

  But when the police came to stop the raiders, which a single dorm mother with a Coke bottle had already done, and to stop the girls hanging out the second-story windows who were waving lace-fringed encouragement, they arrested everyone in sight, including the irate dorm mother who had assaulted an officer of the law on his way upstairs to stop those silly girls, and including innocent bystander, Joe Morning.

  “Man, I’m not doing anything,” he said to the cop who tried to pull him off the car. “I been sitting here all the time.”

  “Oh, sorry, boy; thought you was a girl-child, sitting there with all that hair,” the cop drawled as he stepped back. “Let’s go.”

  “Fuck off, peckerwood. I haven’t done a thing.”

  “You just did,” the cop said as Morning tried to jerk away. He skillfully stabbed him in the stomach with his billy, slid him off the hood, twisted an arm behind, and guided him to the wagon. At the steps Morning struggled slightly, more to get his breath than to resist, and in the scuffle was jabbed again, but managed to vomit in the cop’s red fat face. The cop laid Morning out with the billy against h
is neck, then stood over him, thumping his ribs until another cop stopped him.

  Morning awoke face down on a thin mattress on a cement floor, his hands painfully cuffed behind him, his feet shackled and tied to an iron ring in the wall, and his ribs blue, bruised, and aching. The tiny cell was hardly wider than the mattress, and a solid steel door with a small sliding plate over a barred window protected the world from this innocent bystander. Morning shouted until a jailer came to tell him to shut up or be gagged or worse, and Morning complained that he needed to pee, the Southern Comfort no comfort now, but the cop explained that there would be a time in the morning for toilet, and that the prisoner best not piss in the cell ‘cause that would be defacing city property, which carried a minimum fine of one hundred dollars. As the cop spoke, which seemed to take hours, Morning noticed that his head felt bald against the mattress, and realized that his hair was gone. He asked why. It was explained that no dirty beatnik pinko was bringing fleas or lice into this jail which had been awarded a plaque from the governor for being the cleanest jail in the state. Morning said that he was honored to stay there, but he sure would like to pee. The cop slammed the plate back over the barred window, saying, piss in one a your books.

  Morning, of course, couldn’t hold his bladder, though he tried, so spent the rest of the night laying in his own waste and stink, cursing the world for that waste and stink. Damn, it had always been this way. Expelled from school for someone else’s smoke in the John; whipped by his mother for the kid next door’s lies; punished at random for the sins of others, he took to sins of his own, smoking, lying to his mother, and he was never caught.

  The next day he found himself charged with disturbing the peace, resisting arrest and, yes, defacing city property. Morning pleaded not guilty and asked for a lawyer, but the justice of the peace said guilty without looking up, dismissed the resisting charge, sentenced him to two hundred dollars or two months in jail. Morning shouted appeal, but the justice of the peace told him no appeal was allowed for misdemeanors in that state.

  Morning settled himself for two months, though he had the money in the bank, but the city called his mother. It seemed they’d rather have the money than Mrs. Morning’s son. She paid the fine that afternoon, and as she walked out to the street with him, she asked, “Joe, Joe, what are you going to do next? What are you going to do?” He walked away without speaking.

  Back in his room he found a note from the assistant dean of men, asking him to leave school. Morning ran still stinking and dirty to the dean’s office up the quiet, pleasant, shaded hill, but the dean refused to see him, saying, in a precise Tidewater voice, You’re not one of our students; our students are Southern gentlemen; please leave my office.

  “Southern gentlemen suck cock,” he said, and left the office.

  He drank the rest of the afternoon in the cool basement. The chapter president sent a pledge to tell Mr. Morning to please move out of the room, but Mr. Morning sent the pledge back up to tell Mr. President to come down to try to make him do anything. Mr. President didn’t come, but the vice-president did: Jack, Morning’s high school buddy buggered by the two farmers that night after they had lost the state championship. He stood in the open door, his face composed, ready for the pitch, acting as if he had forgotten the hate of that night, acting as if he were big enough, as he had said, to forgive and forget, stood there in loafers, gray slacks, a crew-neck sweater, for the winter chill still clung in Morning’s basement though spring had come two weeks before.

  “Joe, boy, what’s the matter with you? Where did you go wrong?” He had been taking business psychology. “You came down here a football star, a stable, straight, clean guy. Then you quit football, the thing you do best of all, calling it stupid, throwing away all those hours of intense preparation. Boy, you better believe, if I could have played as well as you, I would have never quit. But you quit, threw all that God-given talent away. Then you moved down in this dirty basement, down to this damp dirty room with all your fine library of books stinking with mold, and this place stinks like a… a… a nigger whorehouse,” he said as Morning tossed a pair of stained panties at his feet. “You bring girls down here, and to the parties, you wouldn’t want your mother to meet. And you haven’t had a hair cut, till now, since God knows when. And you sit down in Mickey’s with those damned pinkos. Joe, I don’t know, I just don’t know. I know you’re good inside, but the things the brothers say about you. Sometimes it hurts me real bad to hear them.” While he talked, Jack had been carefully removing mildewed books and dirty clothes from a chair. He sat down, clasped his hands in front of a knee, and said, “And this hurts me most of all, Joe. The chapter voted you out this morning. Mind you, we can’t vote you out of the national body. I mean once you are a member of this fraternity, you are a member for life, just like when you joined the church. But they can vote you out of the house. I talked for you, but in a case like this an officer just has one vote, too. It really hurts me, Joe. We been together a long time. I just don’t know.”

  “Morning out in the morning,” he chanted. “Tell my brethren I’ll be come ‘fore daylight charms their ruddy cheeks. You’re gonna make a wonderful junior executive, Jack, you know that?”

  “Joe, boy, what’s gone wrong?” Jack asked again, his voice and face soft in professional concern. He fooled a drunk Morning.

  So Morning tried to answer him as he lay back among the twisted, dirty sheets, looking vacantly up at the poster of an intent Lenin pasted on the low ceiling, but after a moment when he looked over at Jack’s bored, dumb face, he snorted, then said with a smile, “Jack, baby, let’s talk about you. I mean what’s wrong with you, son? I know how you acted when them farm boys corn-holed you, I remember that, but they told me you loved it, and wouldn’t let them stop. And your roommate been looking kinda peaked lately…”

  “You son of a bitch,” Jack said, standing up. “You bastard, I should have killed you that night.”

  “That’s right, bugger, ‘cause you sure as hell can’t do it now. They fucked the guts out of you that night.”

  Jack sought the dirtiest curse he could think of: “You damned Communist.”

  Morning laughed and laughed, wild, happy roars that drove Jack from the room, across the basement, and up the stairs, and might still drive him wherever he may be. “Better Commie than queer, Jackshit.” He laughed until in that quickly, for him, vanishing point between pleasure and pain, he found tears falling on his dirty hands, sobs raw in his throat, and a great lonely hole growing inside, the hole he drank into all the night long.

  * * *

  The next morning he felt, as he always did when chance laid him open to the world’s fateful arrows and errors, that not only his civil, but even more his moral rights had been played with fast and loose by the minor officials of the various legalities he was subject to, fraternal, academic, municipal. In his drunken way he was going to demand redress, even if that redress would cost him in the same careless way: he was born to be a loser. Loser or not, though, he presented himself before the steps of the college administration building at eight o’clock in the morning, neatly dressed, shaved, clean, wearing the slacks, sweater, loafer uniform of his fellow men, and carrying a neatly lettered sign which said simply, as Morning said all his days, I PROTEST, meaning merely that he was protesting the world’s treatment of him.

  The administration had learned from other protests the best defense: they quietly, calmly ignored him in the way a father ignores his errant infant son. The administration was also in the process of ignoring four young Negroes who came each day with signs to protest the segregation rules of the college. The administration, adept at ignorance, also paid no mind to the eight or ten football players who appeared each morning at ten o’clock to formally spit on the Negroes who, if they blinked at this, were left curled in silent pain on the clean sidewalk, or dropped on the carefully clipped grass, or stretched over a neat hedge. But this was to be a different morning.

  Just as the first Negro fel
l, the tall lean hungry end from north Alabama who had hit him found himself falling as Joe Morning landed square with both feet in the middle of his back. Morning became all feet and elbows, his frenzy the madness of righteousness, his strength that of surprise and holy anger, and the infidels fell about him in waves, and if he could have them away from his ribs, he might have stood them off until sweet darkness. As it was, he made them forfeit such an unholy price for his defeat that they left the other three Negroes alone that day, and from that day let the Negroes protest in peace.

  So for the second time in three days, Morning woke beaten and bleeding slightly on that thin mattress, which still held the stink of his waste, bound and chained again, though on his back this time. Ah, even the fuzz is wearing thin, growing soft, he thought as he woke, and smiled, then touched his tongue to the stiff stitches in his split lip. Holy rage had eased the bitterness. He felt as clean as the lamb, washed in his own blood, but clean nonetheless, and he sang happy songs until he was released at five.

  A civil-rights organization had bailed him out, and a sweet-faced, collegiate-looking cat from Cornell thanked him for his zeal and love, but chided him for resorting to violence, then bought him a beer. Partly because he wanted to throw it at his mother, partly because he needed a place to rest, but mostly because he was enchanted by this soft-spoken chocolate cat with a touch of a Yankee twang, Morning moved with the Negro into a small room off the war room in the basement of a Negro church. “Basements again,” Morning said, “Always the lower depths for me,” with laughter. He refused at first to even allow that non-violence had any positive possibilities; his plan was to bring the bluebellies back down the Mississippi, then let them march dreadfully to the sea, burning crops of white men in their wake. But Richard, the Negro, refused even to allow Morning to sing with them until he at least intellectually acknowledged that non-violence was the way, for now. So Morning did, mentally preparing himself for being spat upon and called niggerlover, but Richard sent him to a man in East St. Louis who then sent Morning and his guitar and his discontent off with a fund-raising group around Mid-Western and Western college campuses. So Morning sang with a Southern accent, and worked, and lived off checks sent secretly by his father instead of taking expenses from the organization, and he worked well except for a few lost weekends, or week days, depending on his moods. It was on one of these dark times, wandering about hilly San Francisco in the fog, that he stepped into the nightclub where sang the man called Linda Charles, and first acknowledged his fear.