Jeff was wondering how he felt. For one thing, it felt good to be included among ‘the boys.’ His whisky-fumed mind didn’t exactly grasp the idea, but it had sounded all right to him. Most of all, both Georgie Wallace (no relation to Henry Wallace) and Hank Ferguson (with four sons in the service) appeared to be great guys. Regular fellas. Wonderful sports. And good Americans. Jeff said: “Sounds great. Great.”
“Well, now, wait’ll you hear what the Congressman said,” beamed Georgie. “He had an extra idea that really makes the plan buzz, all right. He said that the boys coming back would not only protect our property but that they would pay back those racketeers for all the strikes during the war. Of course that couldn’t be put in the bill, because you know how unions are—they might wreck a man’s political career. But that’s what he said just the same.”
“Of course, now, Georgie,” pointed out Hank, “you can’t go and snatch up all of our fine boys. You know good old Uncle Sam’s going to have a little job on his hands after this war keeping the whole doggone world hep to the idea of who’s boss.”
“You’re telling me,” nodded Georgie. “Don’t I know it, though!”
“Think of all those islands we’ll own after the war, and who’s going to police ’em? Eh? Answer me that?”
“Why, the boys.”
“Keerect. And that’s not all. There’s another big problem we’re going to have right here in this good old U.S.A. Ever thought about the niggers, eh? Eh, Georgie?”
“What do you mean, Hank? Trouble?”
“Yes sir. Sure’s you’re born. Made the biggest mistake of our lives letting them into the war. Lot of southern niggers going to camp up North. Getting ideas. And a lot more going over there to France and all those whorehouse countries. Well, you know how they treat niggers over there? Well, all those niggers will be coming home with big ideas. They’re going to think they own the good old U.S.A. They’ll want more money for working, and you know as well as I do how they don’t produce worth a doggone now. And just look at what the niggers are doing right in New York. Raping girls and stealing and beating up people. Why, it ain’t safe to walk the streets any more.”
“Gotcha, Hank. Gotcha. Right up there with you. Mean the boys’ll keep the boogies in place, huh?”
“Keerect, Georgie. Right on the button. You know how many niggers we got in this country, don’t you? Well, I’ll tell you. Fifteen million of ’em. Fifteen million in a black man’s army.”
Somewhere in Jeff’s mind the statistics of Hank Ferguson came a cropper.
“I think,” said Jeff slowly, “there are fifteen million Negroes altogether. That includes women, children, and the aged.”
“Why, my dear boy,” said Hank piteously. “That’s exactly the point. Every one of ’em is a potential danger. Some of those nigger kids fight good as a man. And as for those nigger women, some of ’em fight better.”
“You’re telling me,” laughed Georgie.
Jeff tried, without much success, to imagine an army of fifteen million Negroes. He gave it up at once. He began to feel that the arguments these men were using were very much like Monty Crawford’s. Only now the reasoning sounded more logical and seemed to be more important because these men talked seriously, without swearing and without Monty’s hatred.
“So there you are,” austerely said Hank. “A big job for the boys. Why it only stands to reason that a country rich as this is got to have a big police force to protect it.” Hank slapped Jeff affectionately on the shoulder. “Don’t you worry, soldier, there’ll be plenty of work for you and all the rest of the boys when this little shindig is over. And plenty of excitement, too.”
“Say, Hank old sock,” said Georgie, “talking about excitement—how about it?”
“Keerect, Georgie, boy. No use spending the rest of our lives in this old joint, is there? Hey, waiter.”
Hank waved for the waiter. Jeff finished his drink and got up.
“Got a big night on, soldier?” asked Georgie.
“Well, I’ve got an appointment someplace soon and.…”
“Appointment, eh?” laughed Hank. “As though we don’t know where. Eh, Georgie? Eh?”
“Gotcha, Hank. Gotcha. What’s her name?” beamed Georgie.
Then Georgie and Hank laughed at the joke.
Jeff wondered what was funny. There was only one woman’s name that mattered to him and that was Mary and she was no laughing matter. He wondered if he ought to get angry. But they were such good sports. And they had made him feel like one of them, and had also made him feel that he was a part of the war. That was the important thing. And for the first time he became aware of something that astonished him. Away from the barracks he could be mistaken for a soldier who was fighting. He found it not at all difficult to assume the role. He wanted, suddenly, to have more of it, to go on playing it. It was good to feel that people were doing things for him, were making plans in his behalf, were concerned about his welfare. It made him feel very happy to be included among “the boys.”
Jeff’s silence only made Hank and Georgie laugh all the more.
“Is she nice to you?” chuckled Hank.
“We know a couple of pips, don’t we Hank? Just his type. Ain’t that so, Hankus old Pankus?”
“Keerect,” said Hank.
“Think we ought to introduce him?” asked Georgie.
“Why not?” said Hank, paying the check. “But first we’ve got to have a few drinks. Maybe see what the local talent is like, eh, Georgie? Eh?”
Jeff insisted upon paying for the one drink he had had before being invited to their table. There were good-hearted remonstrances and “Don’t be foolish” and “Well, if you insist” and finally Jeff had his way and paid for the one drink. Hank took one of Jeff’s arms and Georgie the other. They left the hotel and Hank hailed a cab. He yelled the name of some bar to the cabby. On the way Hank told a dirty story, and then Georgie told one. Jeff had heard them before, but he laughed anyway. During the telling of the stories Jeff was trying vaguely to remember what had happened that day. Nothing unusual stood out except that it seemed to have been a wonderful day. He knew he was tight. That made him a little sad because he knew it would wear off. Also he could not help thinking of Mary. Was this the way she was spending her time? He didn’t know. He imagined so.
There was something else that seemed to be leaning over a shelf in his mind. Earlier in the day he had been proud of something. The thought came vaporously back. It had something to do with killing someone. He didn’t know who he had been going to kill. Then it had been important, but now it was unimportant. There were other ways, it seemed, of being a part of what was going on in the world. For instance, these nice, warmhearted fellows had mistaken him for a hero. They had cast him in the role and he had played it. It was easy. There really were no telltale marks, thought Jeff.
He tried to recall where he had been before he had found Hank and Georgie. The effort was too much. He just sat back in the worn, sagging leather of the cab seat and let the warm air fan him. Georgie was about to start another smutty story “about a guy who was suspicious of his wife and had to go away for a week end” when the cab stopped and a tall, uniformed doorman opened the cab door. They got out and Georgie insisted upon paying the cab fare.
“Now, Hankus, you’ve got to let me do this,” said Georgie. Hank let him. They went into the gaily colored, zebra-striped saloon and took seats at the circular bar. Jeff liked this bar. It was noisier than the last place. It also had more women in it. They were all pretty women, Jeff thought. He admired the way they were dressed. The way they drank and talked. The way they smelled. Hank was ordering drinks and Georgie had gone to the men’s room.
Somewhere at the end of the long room an orchestra was playing and a girl was singing. The song had something to do with “Do you wanna grow up to be a mule?” He didn’t pay much attention to the song but he liked the girl’s voice. It was the kind of voice that caressed you when it sang. A low buzz of conversation fl
oated around the bar. Most of the men were civilians and the few uniformed men were officers. The women wore nice gowns and gloves of net material and they all had a lot of lipstick on. It seemed to make their mouths look bigger and better. Jeff felt a sudden desire to kiss them all.
“Monica ought to see me now,” said Hank.
“Who’s Monica?” Jeff asked.
“The little woman,” said Hank. “But what she’d make of it isn’t half as bad as what Georgie’s wife would think. She’s a holy terror on bar drinking. But not Monica. We understand each other. She knows I’m going to go out and have a good time. Women like their husbands to have a good time. Oh, sometimes they raise a little Cain about it and bust out into a crying jag and say you’re ruining their lives and things like that. But take my advice, son, there’s nothing like a good wife. Nothing. Absolutely nothing. It’s the heart and soul of American life. The family. Yes sir. Take my advice and get married, soldier. Nothing like it. Recommend it highly. Every man should have a good wife. Bedrock of America, the good wife. And raise plenty of kids. Nothing like it. Good wife and kids. Good church and good government. Then your personal life is your own. Sure, I have a good time. Wife expects things like that. But it only makes you appreciate your wife better.”
Maybe that had been the trouble all along, thought Jeff. His wife expected him to have a good time, and there all the time he had been playing noble.
Georgie came back to the bar and brought a young woman with him. He had his arm around her shoulder. She didn’t seem to mind.
“Lucy,” said Georgie in a loud voice, “I want you to meet my very good friend, Hank. Hank this is Lucy.” Hank got off the bar stool and shook hands with Lucy. “He’s a friend of ours, too,” said Georgie waving limply toward Jeff. “H’ya, soldier,” said Lucy and looked back into Hank’s eyes. Jeff liked Lucy. She had large firm breasts and her dress was cut low at the neck. You could see where the breasts met. Her lips were painted a bright orange and she smiled in a most smiley way. Hank made way for her on his stool and she sat down. Hank and Georgie flanked her.
“Native girl?” asked Hank.
“Who? Me?” she laughed. “Not on your life.”
“Virginia, I bet,” roared Georgie as though it were a huge joke.
“Uh-uh,” said Lucy, shaking her head.
“Kentucky?” guessed Hank.
Lucy shook her head again and swallowed Hank’s drink. “What was that?” she asked.
“Martini,” said Hank.
“Good,” said Lucy. “More, huh?”
“You bet,” said Georgie. Georgie ordered more martinis.
“Come on,” said Hank, “where you from? Tell a fella, eh? Eh?”
“Why?”
“Gotta know where a lady’s from,” said Georgie.
“Minnesota,” said Lucy. “Minneapolis, Minnesota.”
“You bane come from Min-ay-zota?” laughed Hank in an imitation Swedish accent.
“You guessed it, big boy,” said Lucy.
“What do you know,” said Georgie, delighted. “Minnesota. Well, I’ll be darned.”
“Great state. Great,” said Hank.
“I don’t think so,” said Lucy. “I think it stinks.”
“You don’t say,” said Georgie, surprised that anyone would think his home state stank.
“Why?” Hank demanded.
“Because this bar isn’t there, that’s why,” said Lucy
Hank and Georgie laughed. Lucy laughed. She slapped Hank’s knee to accentuate her laughter. Hank laughed harder. George laughed harder. The drinks came and Georgie paid for them. Lucy drank hers fast. Jeff knew she was the kind of girl who could drink many drinks fast and still remain sober. Far more sober than those who were buying the drinks.
“Where you two butter-and-egg men from?” she asked.
“Never touch the stuff,” said Hank. It was a big joke. They started in laughing again.
“Won’t your mama mind you being out at a nasty old bar all alone?” Georgie asked.
“Not tonight, she won’t,” said Lucy. “Mama’s night out with the Fuller brush man.”
This brought a spasm of laughter from Georgie, and Hank joined in until he had to take the handkerchief out of his breast pocket and wipe his eyes.
“What do you do for a living?” asked Hank.
“I live,” said Lucy.
Hank howled at that. “Where’d you find this wonderful woman?” Hank demanded of Georgie.
“Just attracted to each other, I guess,” he said.
“That’s it,” said Lucy. “They call me the Magnetic Mine. I’m just naturally pulled toward Butter-and-Eggs.”
“George, run right out and buy some butter and eggs,” said Hank.
“Who? Not me? Think I’d leave a wolf like you with a little girl like this?”
“Why don’t we all go out and get some butter and eggs?” asked Hank with an owlish look on his face.
“Can’t leave little old martinis like this,” said Lucy. To prove it she drank her second one and nodded to the barman for more.
“Ever been married?” asked Georgie.
“Sure. Who hasn’t?” said Lucy coldly.
“Keerect,” snapped Hank. “Best doggone institution in the world.”
“Says who?” Lucy wanted to know.
The barman slid a double martini before her. She drank it almost like water.
“What’ll your old hubby say about you being out with Butter and Eggs?” said Georgie.
“There isn’t any more husband,” said Lucy.
“Oh,” said Hank, suddenly concerned and saying it as though he were speaking of the bereaved.
“Snap out of it, mister,” said Lucy. “He ain’t dead—yet. He’s a damned hero on some battleship somewhere.”
“Oh,” said Georgie. “Sailor.”
“Look,” said Lucy shortly, “who we feeling sorry for? Him or me? If you’re interested in my husband I’ll write and let him know.”
“Now, now, Lucy darling,” said Hank.
“Got any friends?” asked Georgie.
“Why? Am I boring you?” she wanted to know.
“How ’bout those butter and eggs?” asked Hank.
“How about them?” said Lucy and finished her drink.
Hank and Georgie took Lucy from the bar. The two men retrieved their hats from the checkroom.
The place was suddenly filled with lips and laughter and eyes that bore down on Jeff. He felt embarrassed for a moment at what the others at the bar might be thinking. Perhaps they thought he had been deserted. Maybe they thought Lucy was his girl and that she had gone off with the other two men. He wanted to tell them all that he didn’t know Lucy. That if he had known her she wouldn’t have gone off with somebody else. Then he knew that they would laugh at him. Because everybody in the world knew that all women went off with somebody else. They would tell him about Mary.
The girl with the caressing voice was singing “Jelly Roll.” She shook her belly when she sang. The music accentuated the song and made it sound dirtier than it was.
Jeff wished they hadn’t gone and left him. He felt alone and let down. He didn’t know these people at the bar and they didn’t seem to care to know him. If someone would only speak to him. But they didn’t. He wondered how Georgie had managed to pick up a girl like Lucy? Why couldn’t he do a thing like that? Not magnetic, he guessed. Maybe he didn’t look like butter and eggs. He rose and left the bar. He got his overseas cap and paid a quarter for it. He went outside and the doorman was opening a cab door to let out a well-dressed couple. It was dark. Jeff got into the cab and the doorman closed the door. The cab started off. “Where to?” asked the cabby. “Down this street,” said Jeff. “Just down this street.”
The Brick Foxhole Page 12