Mercy

by Andrea Dworkin

such and there’s a terrible decline and fall awaiting you, fear

  and travail, because the m oney’s gone, you been handing it

  over to the big man behind the bar and you been drinking and

  you been contemplating and the pile’s gone and there’s terrible

  challenges ahead, like physically getting o ff the stool and

  physically getting out o f the room and physically getting

  home; it hardly seems possible that you could actually have so

  many legs and none o f them have any bones that stand up

  straight and you break it down into smaller parts; pay up so the

  bartender don’t break your fingers; get o ff the stool; stand up;

  walk, try not to lean on anyone, you can’t use the men as

  leaning posts, you can’t volley yourself to the front sort o f

  springing o ff one after the other, because one or another will

  consider it affection; get to the door; don’t fall on the mandarin

  with the list, don’t trip in front o f him, don’t throw up; open

  the door on your own steam; get out the door fully clothed,

  jacket, T-shirt, keys; once outside, you make another plan.

  These are hard things; some o f them may actually be

  impossible. It may be impossible to pay the bartender because

  you may have drunk too much and it may be impossible to get

  o ff the stool and it may be impossible to walk and it may be

  impossible to stand up and it may be impossible to find the

  door. It’s sad, yo u ’re an orphan and it’s hard to concentrate,

  what with poor nutrition and a bad education; but sociology

  w ill not save your ass if you drank more money than you got

  because a citizen has to pay their bar bills. There’s tw o dollars

  sitting on the bar in front o f you, the remains o f your pile like

  old bones, fragments o f an archaic skeleton, little remnants o f

  a big civilization dug up and yo u ’re eyeing it like it’s the grail

  but with dishonorable intent and profane desire. It’s rightly

  the bartender’s. H e’s been taking the money as it’s been due

  with righteous discipline, which is w hy you ain’t overdrawn

  on the account; you asked him in a tiny mouse voice afraid o f

  the answer, you squeaked in the male din, a frightened

  whisper, you asked him if you owed, you got up the nerve,

  and yo u ’re straight with him as far as it goes but these extra

  bills are rightly his; or you could have another drink; but you

  had wanted to end it well, with some honor; and also he ain’t a

  waitress, dear, and the m oney’s got his mark on it; and he ain’t

  cracked a smile or said a tender word all night, which a girl

  ain’t used to, he don’t like girl drinkers as a matter o f principle

  you assume, he’s fast, he’s quiet, he’s got a hard, cold face with

  a square ja w and long, oily hair and a shirt half open and a long

  earring and bad teeth and he’s aloof and cold to you; and then

  suddenly, so fast it didn’t happen, there’s a big, warm hand on

  your hand, a big, hairy hand, and he’s squeezing your fingers

  around the two dollars and he’s half smiling, one half o f his

  face is smiling, and he says darling take a fucking cab. Y ou

  stare at him but you can’t exactly see him; his face ain’t all in

  one piece; it’s sort o f split and moving; and before you exactly

  see his mouth move and hook it up with his words he’s gone,

  w ay to a foreign country, the other end o f the bar where

  they’re having bourbon, some cowboys with beards and hats.

  Life’s always kind in a pinch. The universe opens up with a

  gift. There’s generosity, someone gives you something special

  you need; two dollars and you don’t have to suck nothing, you

  are saved and the man in his generosity stirs you deeply.

  Y o u ’re inspired to succeed with the rest o f the plan— move,

  stand, walk, execute each detail o f the plan with a military

  precision, although you wish you could take o ff your T-shirt

  because it’s very hot but you follow the plan you made in your

  mind and although your legs buckle and the ground isn’t solid,

  it’s swelling and heaving, you make it past the strange, w avy

  creatures with the deep baritone voices and the erections and

  you get out, you get out the door even though it’s hard and

  yo u ’re afraid because you can see outside that it’s raining, it’s

  raining very hard, it’s pouring down, it’s so wet, you really

  have an aversion to it because all your clothes will be drenched

  and soaking and your lungs will be wet and your bones will

  get all damp and wet and you can’t really see very well and the

  rain’s too heavy and everything looks different from before

  and you can’t really see through the rain and it’s getting in

  your eyes as if your eyes are under water and burning, all

  drowned in water, they hurt, and everything’s blurred and

  your hair’s all wet as if it w o n ’t ever be dry again and there’s

  water in your ears deep down and it hurts and everything's

  chilly and wet. The w o rld ’s wet and watery and without

  definition and without any fixed places o f reference or fixed

  signs and it’s as if the city’s floating by you, like some flood

  uprooted everything and it’s loose on the rapids and everywhere you step you are in a flood o f racing cold water. Y ou r feet are all wet and your legs are all wet and you squoosh in

  your boots and all your clothes are soaked through and you are

  dripping so much that it is as if you yourself are raining,

  w ater’s flooding o ff you and it’s useless to be a person with

  legs who counts on solid ground because here you have to

  walk through water, which isn’t easy, yo u ’re supposed to

  sw im through it but there’s not enough to swim through and

  there’s too much to walk through, it’s as if yo u ’re glued and

  gum m y and loose and the ground’s loose and the water’s loose

  and yo u ’re breathing in water as much as air and you feel like

  some fucking turkey that’s going to drow n in the rain; which

  probably you will. Y o u ’re trying to walk home and it’s been a

  long time, the old trick o f putting one foot in front o f the other

  doesn’t seem to be working and you don’t seem to have got

  very far but it’s hard to tell since nothing looks right or

  familiar and everything’s under water and blurry and yo u ’re

  cold and sort o f fixed in place because the w ater’s weighing

  you down, kind o f making you so heavy you can’t really m ove

  as i f yo u ’re an earthbound person m oving effortlessly through

  air as is the case with normal people on normal days because it

  ain’t air, it’s water. Y o u ’re all wet as if you was naked and your

  clothes are wet and heavy as if they was lead and your breasts

  are sore from the wet and the cold and your pubic hair’s all

  wet and rubbing up against the wet stu ff all bunched up in

  your crotch and there’s rain rolling down your legs and

  com ing out the bottom o f your pants and yo u ’d be happier

  naked, wet and naked, because the clothes feel very bad on

  you, wet and bad. T h ey’re heavy and nasty and cold. The
/>   m oney’s in your hand and it’s all wet, all rained out, soaking

  wet, and your hand’s clutched, and you try proceeding

  through the wet blur, you need to stay on the sidewalks and

  you need to avoid oncoming cars and turning cars and crazy

  cars that can’t see any better than you and you need to see the

  traffic lights and you need to see what’s in front o f you and

  w hat’s on the side o f you and what’s behind you, just as on any

  regular day, and at night even more; but you can’t see and the

  rain keeps you from hearing as well and you proceed slow ly

  and you don’t get too far; it’s been a long time you been out

  here and you haven’t gone but half a block and you are

  drenched in water and breathing too fast and breathing too

  hard and your legs aren’t carrying you right and the ground’s

  not staying still and the water’s pushing you from behind and

  it’d like to flatten you out and roll over you, and it ain’t nice

  lapping against the calves o f your legs; and a cab stops; which

  you have barely ever ridden in before, not on your own; it

  stops; you’ve been in them when someone’s given you money

  to deliver packages and said where to go and exactly what to

  do and how much it would cost and still you were scared it

  would cost too much and you wouldn’t have it and something

  terrible would happen; a cab stops and you don’t know if two

  dollars is enough or if he thinks you’re turning tricks, a dumb

  wet whore, or if he just wants to fuck or if you could get inside

  and he’d just take you home, a passenger; a cab stops and

  yo u ’re afraid to get in because you’re not a person who rides in

  cabs even in extremis even though you have two dollars and

  it’s for taking a cab as the bartender said if you didn’t dream it

  and probably he knows how much everything costs; a cab

  stops; and yo u ’re wet; and you want to go home; and if you

  got in the cab you could be home almost right away, very

  close to right away, you could be home in just some few

  minutes instead o f a very long time, because if you walk you

  don’t know how long it will take or how tired yo u ’ll be and

  you could get so tired you just stop somewhere to give up, a

  doorw ay, an abandoned car, or even if you keep going it will

  take a long time; and i f you got in the cab you could sit still for

  a few minutes in perfect dignity and it would be dry and quiet

  and you would be in the back, a passenger, and you could

  ju m p if he pulled shit, if he started driving wild or going

  somewhere strange, and yo u ’d give him the tw o dollars and

  he’d take you home, and you get in the cab, it’s dark and

  leather and yo u ’re scared about the m oney so you say upfront

  that you only got two dollars and he asks where yo u ’re going

  and you say and he says fine, it’s fine, it’s okay, it’s no

  problem, and he says it’s raining and you say yeah, it is; and he

  says some quiet, simple things, like sometimes it rains too

  hard, and you say yes; he’s quiet and softspoken and there’s

  long, curly hair cascading down his back and he says that I’m

  wet with some sym pathy and I say yes I am; and he asks me

  what I do in a quiet and sympathetic w ay and I say I’m a writer;

  and he says he’s a musician, very quiet, nice; and I say I drank

  too much, I was writing and I got restless and I got drunk and

  he says yes he knows what that’s like, very quiet, very nice,

  he’s done it too, everyone does it sometimes, but he doesn’t

  keep talking, he’s very quiet, he talks soft, not a lot, and there’s

  quiet moments and I think he’s pretty nice and I’m trying to

  watch the streets to see where we are and w e’re going towards

  where I live but up and down blocks, it doesn’t seem direct but

  I don’t know because I don’t drive and I don’t know if there’s

  one-w ay streets and the meter’s o ff anyw ay and he’s English

  like in films with a distinguished accent, sort o f tough like

  Albert Finney but he talks quiet and nice, a little dissonant; he’s

  sort o f slim and delicate, you know how pretty a man can be

  when he’s got fine features, chiseled, and curls, and he’s sort o f

  waif-like, kind o f like a child in Dickens, appealing with a pull

  to the heart, street pretty but softspoken, not quite hard, not

  apparently cynical, not a regular N ew Y ork taxi driver as I’ve

  seen them, all squat and old, but graceful, lithe, slight, young,

  younger than me probably, new, not quite used but not

  untouched, virginal but available, you can have him but it isn’t

  quite right to touch him, he’s withdrawn and aloof and it

  appears as a form o f refinement, he’s delicate and finely made,

  you wonder what it would be like to touch him or if he’d be

  charmed enough to touch you back, it’s a beauty without

  prettiness except this one’s pretty too, too pretty for me, I

  think, I never had such a pretty, delicate boy put together so

  fine, pale, the face o f an old, inbred race, now decadent,

  fragile, bloodless, with the heartrending beauty o f fine old

  bones put together delicately, reconstructed under glass, it

  w ouldn’t really be right to touch it but still you want to, just

  touch it; and you couldn’t really stop looking at him in the

  m irror o f the taxi, all the parts o f his face barely hang together,

  all the parts are fragile and thin, it’s delicate features and an

  attitude, charm and insouciance but with reserve, he puts out

  and he holds back, he decides, he’s used to being wanted, he’s

  aloof, or is it polite, or is it gentle? He turns around and smiles

  and it’s like angel dust; I’m dusted. I get all girlish and

  embarrassed and I think, really, he’s too pretty, he doesn’t

  mean it, and there’s a real tense quiet and we drive and then he

  stops and w e’re there and I hand him the two dollars because

  we agreed and he says real quiet, maybe I could come in, and I

  say yes, and I’m thinking he’s so pretty, it’s like being in a

  m ovie with some movie star you have a crush on only he’s

  coming with you and it’s not in a movie but you know how a

  crush on someone in a film makes you crazy, so weird, as if

  you could really touch him even though he’s flat and on film

  and the strange need you think you have for him and the things

  you think you would do with him, those are the feelings,

  because I have a stupid crush, an insane crush, a boy-crazy

  crush, and I am thinking this is a gorgeous night with the

  visitation o f this fine boy but I am so fucking drunk I can

  barely get up the steps and I think he’ll turn around and go

  because it can’t be nice for him and now he can see how drunk;

  smashed; as if I got Stoli pumping through m y heart and it’s

  fumes I’m inhaling, fumes rising out o f m y ow n veins or rising

  from m y chest, like a fog rising out o f m y chest, and I am

  falling down drunk and such a fool, in m y heart I am romantic

  for him, all desire and affection verging on an impolite


  hunger, raw, greedy, now, now, but there’s m y beautiful

  dog, m y very gorgeous and fine dog, m y heart, m y beast o f

  jo y and love, m y heart and soul, m y friend on romps and good

  times around the block, and she’s jum ping up and down and

  she’s licking me and she’s jum ping all over me and it makes me

  fall and I say I have to walk her because I do, I must, she’s got

  rights, I explain, I have this idea she’s got rights, and I think he

  will leave now but he says, very quiet and nice, oh I’ll walk

  her, you ju st lie here, and I am flat out drunk, laid out drunk,

  flat and drunk on m y bed, a mattress on the floor, barely a

  mattress, a cut piece o f foam rubber, hard and flat, it’s an

  austere bed for serious solitude or serious sex and I am fucking

  stretched out and the walls move, a fast circle dance, and he

  takes her leash and they leave and I’m smiling but time goes by

  and I get scared, I start waiting, I start feeling time brushing by

  me, I start thinking I will never see m y dog again and I think

  what have I done and I think I will die from losing her if he

  doesn’t bring her back and I think I have to call the police or I

  have to follow him and find him or I have to get up and get out

  and call to her and I think about life without her if she were

  gone and I’d die and I try to m ove an arm but I can’t m ove it

  and there’s a pain coming into m y heart which says I am a pale

  shadow o f what you will feel the rest o f your life if she’s gone,

  it says yo u ’ll mourn the rest o f your life and there’s a grief that

  will burn up your insides and leave them just bare and burned

  and em pty, burned ugly and barren, obliterated; and I know

  that if she’s gone I’m going to pull m yself to pieces, pull my

  mind apart, tear m yself open, rend my breast, turn m y heart to

  sackcloth, make ashes out o f m y heart; if she’s gone I’m lost; a

  wanderer in madness and pain; despondent; a vagabond

  turned loose one last time, sad enough to turn the world to

  hell; I’ll touch it, anything before me, and make it hell. I will

  rage on these streets a lifetime and I will build fires from