“Now, this one came in with a slight fracture of the skull. He’d fallen, evidently—they’re always falling—and struck his head between the right temple and eye. No real damage, just a crack. But there are a good many broken blood-vessels, which accounts for the violent discoloration. The nerves just under the surface are probably damaged too. He may have a slight area of numbness there for some time to come, possibly even for the rest of his life. I noticed when I probed, he didn’t seem to feel it at all. Here, touch it.”
Don tried to look away but he could not. If Wick could see him now, if his mother, if Helen, they would die of shame. He didn’t. What was happening to him was, in a sense, not happening at all, because nobody knew about it—least of all the man who bent over the anonymous patient and touched the right temple with his finger.
“Do you feel that?”
He couldn’t answer, he merely shook his head.
“He’s probably been drinking for days,” the doctor said. “The blood showed quite a high content of alcohol. We tried to give him a spinal tap but he wouldn’t take it. He came to at that point and refused. Obviously he’s a man of intelligence and in full possession of his faculties, for the present. So there’s nothing to do but let him go. He’s all right. Did the nurse give you the paraldhyde?”
He nodded. The other man studied him abstractedly, apparently deep in thought. It wasn’t Don he was seeing, it wasn’t anybody. Don returned the gaze. But there was no recognition, no exchange in it at all.
“Do you feel better since you took it?”
He nodded again.
“I thought you said, Doctor,” the man in the business suit said, “that you didn’t give them sedatives in the daytime.”
“Oh, this one is ready to go home and we want him to be able to get there. We don’t want him to collapse in the street.”
“And then what will happen? Will he start all over again?”
“Possibly. They usually do. But that’s something beyond our control. Most of them come back again and again. Not so much this kind of patient—they can usually afford the private hospitals or sanitariums—as the others. We can’t help them or cure them, not here. This is merely a clearing-house. Our only business is to help them get on their feet and out of here as soon as possible.”
“I see. The poor keep coming back. The rich go away to the private places and get a cure.”
“There isn’t any cure, besides just stopping. And how many of them can do that? They don’t want to, you see. When they feel bad like this fellow here, they think they want to stop, but they don’t, really. They can’t bring themselves to admit they’re alcoholics, or that liquor’s got them licked. They believe they can take it or leave it alone—so they take it. If they do stop, out of fear or whatever, they go at once into such a state of euphoria and well-being that they become over-confident. They’re rid of drink, and feel sure enough of themselves to be able to start again, promising they’ll take one, or at the most two, and—well, then it becomes the same old story all over again. Too bad, too. You and I don’t realize it, because liquor doesn’t mean to us what it does to them.” The doctor turned to Don. “Why don’t you go home? You can, you know.”
“I’m waiting for my hat.”
The men glanced at each other and laughed, and then moved off.
He could have kicked himself for saying that. It made him, somehow, so utterly ludicrous and laughable that he was ashamed for the first time that morning. Oh, Christ, what difference did it make? Nobody knew he was here, and nobody here knew or cared who he was. But he was ashamed all the same. He got up and stepped to the small barred window near the end of his bed. He looked out and down. Cars and busses were going by, people moved along the sidewalk. Who of those down there knew who was up here, what was going on in this room, what was going on inside the men in this room? How many times had he himself driven down this street, past this very building where he stood looking down, and never even looked at the place, never dreamed that one day—Never dreamed it because those things just didn’t happen. Not to the kind of person he was, the kind of people he knew.…
“They say you didn’t have a hat.”
He turned and there was Bim.
“You weren’t wearing one when you came in, they say.”
“I wasn’t?”
“That’s what they tell me, baby.”
He moved away from the wall. Surprisingly, he walked well enough. He felt weak, but not too unsteady. The paraldehyde still held, if that’s what it was that was doing it. It had to hold till he got home. “Will you show me, now, how to get out?”
“Okay, let me take your arm.”
“I don’t need it. Thanks.”
They started down the ward, Don keeping his eyes straight ahead, unable to meet the derisive, yearning, or fearful glances he felt from all sides.
“You’ve got to stop at the desk and sign something.”
“What?”
“A paper. You release the hospital from all responsibility. That’s because you wouldn’t take the treatment.”
In the hall, a nurse handed up a printed form and a pen without looking up from her work. In front of her, on the desk, was a large open jar half-full of thick white wafers—probably the salt-tablets they had been talking about.
“Right here, baby.” Bim pointed his finger at the place to sign.
Don took the pen. His mind went back to the mornings at Juan-les-Pins, the agonizing mornings at the bank when often he spent more than an hour trying to control the shaking of his hand before he could bring himself to attempt the signature on the letter-of-credit under the eyes of the watching teller. He would drop out of line again and again, just as he had reached the window, and go sit outdoors to stare at the incredible blue of the sea and take deep breaths and try to calm himself by forgetting the money he needed, the pen, the necessary signature, and the impassive teller; and when he had recovered enough to join the line again, the whole unnerving helpless performance would be repeated. But now, to his surprise—probably to Bim’s too—the hand wrote his name plainly and well. Paraldehyde—he must hang onto it, never never forget it.
“I’ll take you to the elevator, baby.”
The walk through the hall and the waiting were a more trying ordeal than he could have anticipated. They went along the corridor in silence till the nurse stopped and pushed a button in the wall. Then he leaned against the wall and looked at Don.
Never had he felt so much on trial in his life—on trial for what, he didn’t know. He went hot with exasperation and embarrassment as he felt the nurse’s eyes looking him over. He didn’t know where to turn, where to fix his own gaze. He waited in a foolish suspense—unreasonable, outlandish, bizarre. In all his life there was no precedent of behavior for such a moment. If that guy so much as spoke to him, uttered a word of advice, told him to take it easy— He felt the odd smile and fought to resist. But it was no use, he couldn’t help himself any longer. Involuntarily, he raised his eyes and looked back.
“Listen, baby.” The voice was so low and soft he could scarcely hear it. “I know you.”
The elevator doors slid open; he saw the brightly lighted car and the sudden response on the faces of the passengers (the broken blood-vessels, the violent discoloration?); he stepped in and quickly turned his back; through the small glass window of the door he saw the nurse’s eyebrows raised in farewell; and the floor gave way beneath his feet.
As he came out into the bright sunlight and started toward the street, an ambulance turned in at the gate. Dang-dang-dang-dang-dang-gang-gang-gang-gang-dang-dang-dang. He walked on to a bus stop at the corner, reached into his vest-pocket for one of the four nickels, and stepped into a bus.
He went to the far end of the bus and sat down, on the rear seat. But he might just as well have stayed up front. The passengers turned—and continually turned—to look at him. The driver bent his head slightly to see him in the mirror. He sat back, erect, and gazed absently out of the window, try
ing to show by his indifference that he had never worn a hat in his life—though a hat, at this moment, was what he longed for more than almost anything else in the world, almost as much as the half-full quart that awaited him on the living room table.
He raced up the three flights of stairs, realizing as he reached the top that exhaustion, and its cure, were at hand again. But the whisky was gone. On the living room table there was no other thing but his hat. There was not even an empty bottle, nor any bottle-wrappings or corks or caps. The litter of the table had been swept away and the entire room cleaned up.
Had Wick come back unexpectedly? Had Helen got in? But Mac would have been here, in the basket; and Helen would have left a note. It was fiendish to have taken the bottle, whoever did it. Mrs. Foley? He went into the kitchen to see if it was on the floor under the sink, where whisky had been kept in the past. He came back through and went to the bathroom. In the mirror over the washbowl he saw how he looked for the first time.
His right eyeball was streaked with red. Around it, for a space as big as his palm, spreading across the temple to the ear, was the discoloration the doctor had so casually spoken of as violent. It was a patch of purple and red and black and shining copper all run together: it looked raw and soft, as if you could poke your finger through it, like a pulsing fontanelle; and it pained now as if he had done just that. He hurried into the living room, snatched up his hat from the table, went into the bedroom and got his wrist-watch, wound it and set it by the Dutchman’s clock, opened the door to the hall again and ran quietly down the stairs.
Sam’s place was locked—it was still a good half-hour before opening time—but he put his face to the glass of the door and peered in. Sam sat at a table in the back, reading a paper, and Gloria stood beside him combing her hair. He tapped on the glass with the edge of the watch.
Sam looked up, came forward a few steps, then pointed for him to go around to a side-door. He didn’t know of any side-door, but he looked and found one. He went into the hallway that led to the stairs and the apartments above, and sure enough, Sam opened a door into the hall.
“Now listen, Sam, don’t get mad.” Sam bent forward and peered at him. “I’ve got to have a bottle. I’ve got to have it. Please take this watch.”
“Now Mr. Birnam, that’s not the thing to do,” Sam said. “I’ve got a drawer full of watches.”
“You’ve got to give it to me, Sam. You’ve got to. Take this until I can get to the bank tomorrow.”
Sam fingered the watch, as if too embarrassed to look at his eye. “I don’t know, Mr. Birnam.”
“Please, Sam. I’ve been in an accident. I’m in bad shape.”
Something in the desperate strange sound of his own voice made him know that Sam wouldn’t hold out on him. He didn’t. He went back into the bar to get the whisky.
Gloria was watching all this from the table. “Nice guy,” she said, when he looked at her. “Lovely guy. Do you go around doing that all the time? Standing people up?”
“What are you talking about?”
“You know what I’m talking about. You don’t need to pretend. I waited here and waited and waited till half— My God, where’d you get the black-eye!”
It was intolerable, waiting; but he would wait till nightfall, if need be. He heard Sam inside at the bar, rattling a paper-bag.
“Boy, that’s a peach! Did Teddy give it to you?”
He glanced at her, immediately suspicious. “Who’s Teddy?”
“Your wife, dope.”
What was she saying, what the hell was she talking about? Was she making fun of him? Sam appeared at the door with the bottle wrapped in a bag. He snatched it from him, said “Thanks,” and ran out. Fool! Where in Christ’s name had she got the fantastic idea that he had a wife?…
Coming up the last flight of stairs, he heard the telephone ringing inside. He stood there in the hall, panting, waiting for it to stop before he went in. He turned and kept his eye on the door to the front apartment where the two ladies lived with their dog Sophie. If the knob should turn, if the door should open— The telephone stopped ringing, he unlocked his door and went in.
With the first drink in his hand, he sat down to puzzle out the story of the hat and half-full quart.
Sure. Of course. The two ladies in the front apartment. He remembered it, now. Remembered the polite little tiff on the stairs—after you; no, after you—and the falling, and then falling again. That was the last he remembered of anything. He must have hit his head and passed out then and there.
And what did they do? Call the police? Send him off in an ambulance? He didn’t know. But he knew a few things they did do. They had found his hat at the foot of the stairs. They got Dave the janitor to let them into the flat. They put his hat on the living room table. They looked around at the disorder. They cleaned up the place. Cleaned it up and cleaned him out—took away the nasty bottle that was the whole source of the trouble. How nice and neighborly of them to straighten up for him. The dear sweet kind considerate bitches.
Maybe you could laugh about it tomorrow. Maybe you could begin to smile after another drink. Maybe you could even get up in another half-hour and go in and thank them for taking such good care of your hat and your flat, and give little Sophie a kick in the teeth—Sophie who had probably been running around here like mad, smelling for Mac, while the busy ladies were busy cleaning up. He knew what the rest of it would be. A few days later, after Wick got back, there would come a genteel tap at the door; Wick would answer it; one of the ladies would be standing there holding the neck of the half-empty bottle between thumb and forefinger; she would peep over Wick’s shoulder to see if Don was about, and then whisper the whole story, her voice rising again to normal on the words “—And so we just thought, under the circumstances—well, you understand.…”
Wick would understand, all right. So did he. Which is why you made the most of moments like these, why you took it while you had it and took all you could get when you got it, why you made hay while the sun shone.
Now he was in for good. No going out for the rest of the day. There was no possibility of raising any more money (not on a Sunday) or getting any more liquor till tomorrow. So this had to last. Well, a full quart would last quite a good while if you took it easy and read a book. After you had it all in you, in slow easy well-spaced wonderful drinks, maybe you would feel like sleeping and sleep till the necessary joints opened in the morning.
He was in no rush, he could take it easy, already he was feeling much better; but after what he had been through, he didn’t feel like feeling too much better too soon. It sneaked up on you, that way, and before you knew it you felt like starting out somewhere. That wasn’t the idea today, that wasn’t what he wanted at all. For once, maybe, he knew where he was safe.
Now he had himself a good drink, a decent one, and sat back and recalled that moment of departure in the hall, the moment before the elevator came, a moment indeed. Listen, baby. The purring Dietrich voice. I know you.
Okay, Pal. You win. You know all about everything, wise guy, you weren’t born yesterday. He was aware, as Bim was, of the downward path he was on; he knew himself well enough to know and admit that Bim had every reason to say what he said—but only insofar as Bim saw, in him, the potential confederate that was every alcoholic: the fellow bogged down in adolescence; the guy off his track, off his trolley; the man still unable to take, at thirty-three or -six or -nine, the forward step he had missed in his ’teens; the poor devil demoralized and thrown off balance by the very stuff intended to restore his frightened or baffled ego; the gent jarred loose into unsavory bypaths that gave him the shudders to think of but which were his natural habitat and inevitable home so long as drink remained the modus operandi of his life; the lush whose native characteristics, whatever they were at the outset, could blur and merge with the whims of every and any companion who offered companionship or worse; the barred one whose own bars were down—the unpredictable renegade to whom anything might happen.
Bim saw all this with the bright eye of his kind. Okay; so far, so good. But Bim’s was also the overbright eye which saw signs and meanings where there were none. Don acknowledged his right to say what he said and to see what he thought he saw. But wise guys who weren’t born yesterday might very well know all about everything and still be far from the truth.
What Bim did not see was that the alcoholic was not himself, able to choose his own path, and therefore the kinship he seemed to reveal was incidental, accidental, transitory at best. If the drunk had been himself he would not be a drunk and potential brother in the first place. And not to be oneself was a thing incomprehensible to the nonchalant Bim, whose one belief in life was to be just that, regardless of who or what, to hell with any or all. It could be such a marvelous world if everyone would only let down their hair—marvelous for Bim. He could do it; why couldn’t everybody else? But millions had nothing to let down their hair about, even among drunks, and millions could be themselves by being no different from what they had always been. For Don, the avenue where Bim beckoned was a blind alley, not shameful but useless, futile, vain, offering no attractions whatever, no hope, nowhere a chance to build. Bim knew better, of course: knew that one could not moralize or rationalize oneself out of it: the alley either existed for you, or it did not. Very well, let him know better! Wasn’t it possible that one could skirt the alley by very reason of knowing it was there? And not skirt it out of fear, either, but out of anguished regard for all that one would have to leave behind if one entered, all the richer realizations of self that would never be fulfilled. But this was protesting too much, why argue, why be anguished or angered, why waste time on all that, when the whole thing boiled down to one simple fact: Drunks were alike, sure, but no more like Bim (necessarily) than Bim was like other male nurses or they like him. But could you tell him that? Not in a thousand years. And why bother, why give him a chance to raise his eyebrows any higher than he already had? Why bother with anything but the glass and the whisky at hand.…
The Lost Weekend Page 15