Miss Lonelyhearts / the Day of the Locust

by Nathanael West

  “It’s sure-fire,” Tod said earnestly, staring at her wet lips and the tiny point of her tongue which she kept moving between them.

  ‘I’ve got just hundreds and hundreds more.”

  He didn’t say anything and her manner changed. While telling the story, she had been full of surface animation and her hands and face were alive with little illustrative grimaces and gestures. But now her excitement narrowed and became deeper and its play internal. He guessed that she must be thumbing over her pack and that she would soon select another card to show him.

  He had often seen her like this, but had never before understood it. All these little stories, these little daydreams of hers, were what gave such extraordinary color and mystery to her movements. She seemed always to be struggling in their soft grasp as though she were trying to run in a swamp. As he watched her, he felt sure that her lips must taste of blood and salt and that there must be a delicious weakness in her legs. His impulse wasn’t to aid her to get free, but to throw her down in the soft, warm mud and to keep her there.

  He expressed some of his desire by a grunt. If he only had the courage to throw himself on her. Nothing less violent than rape would do. The sensation he felt was like that he got when holding an egg in his hand. Not that she was fragile or even seemed fragile. It wasn’t that. It was her completeness, her egglike self-sufficiency, that made him want to crush her.

  But he did nothing and she began to talk again.

  “I’ve got another swell idea that I want to tell you. Maybe you had better write this one up first. It’s a backstage story and they’re making a lot of them this year.”

  She told him about a young chorus girl who gets her big chance when the star of the show falls sick. It was a familiar version of the Cinderella theme, but her technique was much different from the one she had used for the South Sea tale. Although the events she described were miraculous, her description of them was realistic. The effect was similar to that obtained by the artists of the Middle Ages, who, when doing a subject like the raising of Lazarus from the dead or Christ walking on water, were careful to keep all the details intensely realistic. She, like them, seemed to think that fantasy could be made plausible by a humdrum technique.

  “I like that one, too,” he said when she had finished.

  “Think them over and do the one that has the best chance.”

  She was dismissing him and if he didn’t act at once the opportunity would be gone. He started to lean toward her, but she caught his meaning and stood up. She took his arm with affectionate brusqueness—they were now business partners—and guided him to the door.

  In the hall, when she thanked him for coming down and apologized for having disturbed him, he tried again. She seemed to melt a little and he reached for her. She kissed him willingly enough, but when he tried to extend the caress, she tore free.

  “Whoa there, palsy-walsy,” she laughed. “Mama spank.”

  He started for the stairs.

  “Good-by now,” she called after him, then laughed again.

  He barely heard her. He was thinking of the drawings he had made of her and of the new one he would do as soon as he got to his room.

  In “The Burning of Los Angeles” Faye is the naked girl in the left foreground being chased by the group of men and women who have separated from the main body of the mob. One of the women is about to hurl a rock at her to bring her down. She is running with her eyes closed and a strange half-smile on her lips. Despite the dreamy repose of her face, her body is straining to hurl her along at top speed. The only explanation for this contrast is that she is enjoying the release that wild flight gives in much the same way that a game bird must when, after hiding for several tense minutes, it bursts from cover in complete, unthinking panic.

  14

  TOD had other and more successful rivals than Homer Simpson. One of the most important was a young man called Earle Shoop.

  Earle was a cowboy from a small town in Arizona. He worked occasionally in horse-operas and spent the rest of his time in front of a saddlery store on Sunset Boulevard. In the window of this store was an enormous Mexican saddle covered with carved silver, and around it was arranged a large collection of torture instruments. Among other things there were fancy, braided quirts, spurs with great spiked wheels, and double bits that looked as though they could break a horse’s jaw without trouble. Across the back of the window ran a low shelf on which was a row of boots, some black, some red and some a pale yellow. All of the boots had scalloped tops and very high heels.

  Earle always stood with his back to the window, his eyes fixed on a sign on the roof of a one-story building across the street that read: “Malted Milks Too Thick For a Straw.” Regularly, twice every hour, he pulled a sack of tobacco and a sheaf of papers from his shirt pocket and rolled a cigarette. Then he tightened the cloth of his trousers by lifting his knee and struck a match along the underside of his thigh.

  He was over six feet tall. The big Stetson hat he wore added five inches more to his height and the heels of his boots still another three. His polelike appearance was further exaggerated by the narrowness of his shoulders and by his lack of either hips or buttocks. The years he had spent in the saddle had not made him bowlegged. In fact, his legs were so straight that his dungarees, bleached a very light blue by the sun and much washing, hung down without a wrinkle, as though they were empty.

  Tod could see why Faye thought him handsome. He had a two-dimensional face that a talented child might have drawn with a ruler and a compass. His chin was perfectly round and his eyes, which were wide apart, were also round. His thin mouth ran at right angles to his straight, perpendicular nose. His reddish tan complexion was the same color from hairline to throat, as though washed in by an expert, and it completed his resemblance to a mechanical drawing.

  Tod had told Faye that Earle was a dull fool. She agreed laughing, but then said that he was “criminally handsome,” an expression she had picked up in the chatter column of a trade paper.

  Meeting her on the stairs one night, Tod asked if she would go to dinner with him.

  “I can’t. I’ve got a date. But you can come along.”

  “With Earle?”

  “Yes, with Earle,” she repeated, mimicking his annoyance.

  “No, thanks.”

  She misunderstood, perhaps on purpose, and said, “He’ll treat this time.”

  Earle was always broke and whenever Tod went with them he was the one who paid.

  “That isn’t it, and you damn well know it.”

  “Oh, isn’t it?” she asked archly, then, absolutely sure of herself, added, “Meet us at Hodge’s around five.”

  Hodge’s was the saddlery store. When Tod got there, he found Earle Shoop at his usual post, just standing and just looking at the sign across the street. He had on his ten-gallon hat and his high-heeled boots. Neatly folded over his left arm was a dark gray jacket. His shirt was navy-blue cotton with large polka dots, each the size of a dime. The sleeves of his shirt were not rolled, but pulled to the middle of his forearm and held there by a pair of fancy, rose armbands. His hands were the same clean reddish tan as his face.

  “Lo, thar,” was the way he returned Tod’s salute.

  Tod found his Western accent amusing. The first time he had heard it, he had replied, “Lo, thar, stranger,” and had been surprised to discover that Earle didn’t know he was being kidded. Even when Tod talked about “cayuses,” “mean hombres” and “rustlers,” Earle took him seriously.

  “Howdy, partner,” Tod said.

  Next to Earle was another Westerner in a big hat and boots, sitting on his heels and chewing vigorously on a little twig. Close behind him was a battered paper valise held together by heavy rope tied with professional-looking knots.

  Soon after Tod arrived a third man came along. He made a thorough examination of the merchandise in the window, then turned and began to stare across the street like the other two.

  He was middle-aged and looked like an
exercise boy from a racing stable. His face was completely covered with a fine mesh of wrinkles, as though he had been sleeping with it pressed against a roll of rabbit wire. He was very shabby and had probably sold his big hat, but he still had his boots.

  “Lo, boys,” he said.

  “Lo, Hink,” said the man with the paper valise.

  Tod didn’t know whether he was included in the greeting, but took a chance and replied.

  “Howdy.”

  Hink prodded the valise with his toe.

  “Goin’ some place, Calvin?” he asked.

  “Azusa, there’s a rodeo.”

  “Who’s running it?”

  “A fellow calls himself ‘Badlands Jack.’”

  “That grifter!… You goin’, Earle?”

  “Nope.”

  “I gotta eat,” said Calvin.

  Hink carefully considered all the information he had received before speaking again.

  “Mono’s makin’ a new Buck Stevens,” he said. “Will Ferris told me they’d use more than forty riders.”

  Calvin turned and looked up at Earle.

  “Still got the piebald vest?” he asked slyly.

  “Why?”

  “It’ll cinch you a job as a road agent.”

  Tod understood that this was a joke of some sort because Calvin and Hink chuckled and slapped their thighs loudly while Earle frowned.

  There was another long silence, then Calvin spoke again.

  “Ain’t your old man still got some cows?” he asked Earle.

  But Earle was wary this time and refused to answer.

  Calvin winked at Tod, slowly and elaborately, contorting one whole side of his face.

  “That’s right, Earle,” Hink said. “Your old man’s still got some stock. Why don’t you go home?”

  They couldn’t get a rise out of Earle, so Calvin answered the question.

  “He dassint. He got caught in a sheep car with a pair of rubber boots on.”

  It was another joke. Calvin and Hink slapped their thighs and laughed, but Tod could see that they were waiting for something else. Earle, suddenly, without even shifting his weight, shot his foot out and kicked Calvin solidly in the rump. This was the real point of the joke. They were delighted by Earle’s fury. Tod also laughed. The way Earle had gone from apathy to action without the usual transition was funny. The seriousness of his violence was even funnier.

  A little while later, Faye drove by in her battered Ford touring car and pulled into the curb some twenty feet away. Calvin and Hink waved, but Earle didn’t budge. He took his time, as befitted his dignity. Not until she tooted her horn did he move. Tod followed a short distance behind him.

  “Hi, cowboy,” said Faye gaily.

  “Lo, honey,” he drawled, removing his hat carefully and replacing it with even greater care.

  Faye smiled at Tod and motioned for them both to climb in. Tod got in the back. Earle unfolded the jacket he was carrying, slapped it a few times to remove the wrinkles, then put it on and adjusted its collar and shaped the roll of its lapels. He then climbed in beside Faye.

  She started the car with a jerk. When she reached LaBrea, she turned right to Hollywood Boulevard and then left along it. Tod could see that she was watching Earle out of the corner of her eye and that he was preparing to speak.

  “Get going,” she said, trying to hurry him. “What is it?”

  “Looka here, honey, I ain’t got any dough for supper.”

  She was very much put out.

  “But I told Tod we’d treat him. He’s treated us enough times.”

  “That’s all right,” Tod interposed. “Next time’ll do. I’ve got plenty of money.”

  “No, damn it,” she said without looking around. “I’m sick of it.”

  She pulled into the curb and slammed on the brakes.

  “It’s always the same story,” she said to Earle.

  He adjusted his hat, his collar and his sleeves, then spoke.

  “We’ve got some grub at camp.”

  “Beans, I suppose.”

  “Nope.”

  She prodded him.

  “Well, what’ve you got?”

  “Mig and me’s set some traps.”

  Faye laughed.

  “Rat traps, eh? We’re going to eat rats.”

  Earle didn’t say anything.

  “Listen, you big, strong, silent dope,” she said, “either make sense, or God damn it, get out of this car.”

  “They’re quail traps,” he said without the slightest change in his wooden, formal manner.

  She ignored his explanation.

  “Talking to you is like pulling teeth. You wear me out.”

  Tod knew that there was no hope for him in this quarrel. He had heard it all before.

  “I didn’t mean nothing,” Earle said. “I was only funning. I wouldn’t feed you rats.”

  She slammed off the emergency brake and started the car again. At Zacarias Street, she turned into the hills. After climbing steadily for a quarter of a mile, she reached a dirt road and followed it to its end. They all climbed out, Earle helping Faye.

  “Give me a kiss,” she said, smiling her forgiveness.

  He took his hat off ceremoniously and placed it on the hood of the car, then wrapped his long arms around her. They paid no attention to Tod, who was standing off to one side watching them. He saw Earle close his eyes and pucker up his lips like a little boy. But there was nothing boyish about what he did to her. When she had had as much as she wanted, she pushed him away.

  “You, too?” she called gaily to Tod, who had turned his back.

  “Oh, some other time,” he replied, imitating her casualness.

  She laughed, then took out a compact and began to fix her mouth. When she was ready, they started along a little path that was a continuation of the dirt road. Earle led, Faye came next and Tod brought up the rear.

  It was full spring. The path ran along the bottom of a narrow canyon and wherever weeds could get a purchase in its steep banks they flowered in purple, blue and yellow. Orange poppies bordered the path. Their petals were wrinkled like crepe and their leaves were heavy with talcumlike dust.

  They climbed until they reached another canyon. This one was sterile, but its bare ground and jagged rocks were even more brilliantly colored than the flowers of the first. The path was silver, grained with streaks of rose-gray, and the walls of the canyon were turquoise, mauve, chocolate and lavender. The air itself was vibrant pink.

  They stopped to watch a hummingbird chase a bluejay. The jay flashed by squawking with its tiny enemy on its tail like a ruby bullet. The gaudy birds burst the colored air into a thousand glittering particles like metal confetti.

  When they came out of this canyon, they saw below them a little green valley thick with trees, mostly eucalyptus, with here and there a poplar and one enormous black live-oak. Sliding and stumbling down a dry wash, they made for the valley.

  Tod saw a man watching their approach from the edge of the wood. Faye also saw him and waved.

  “Hi, Mig!” she shouted.

  “Chinita!” he called back.

  She ran the last ten yards of the slope and the man caught her in his arms.

  He was toffee-colored with large Armenian eyes and pouting black lips. His head was a mass of tight, ordered curls. He wore a long-haired sweater, called a “gorilla” in and around Los Angeles, with nothing under it. His soiled duck trousers were held up by a red bandanna handkerchief. On his feet were a pair of tattered tennis sneakers.

  They moved on to the camp which was located in a clearing in the center of the wood. It consisted of little more than a ramshackle hut patched with tin signs that had been stolen from the highway and a stove without legs or bottom set on some rocks. Near the hut was a row of chicken coops.

  Earle started a fire under the stove while Faye sat down on a box and watched him. Tod went over to look at the chickens. There was one old hen and a half a dozen game cocks. A great deal of pains had bee
n taken in making the coops, which were of grooved boards, carefully matched and joined. Their floors were freshly spread with peat moss.

  The Mexican came over and began to talk about the cocks. He was very proud of them.

  “That’s Hermano, five times winner. He’s one of Street’s Butcher Boys. Pepe and El Negro are still stags. I fight them next week in San Pedro. That’s Villa, he’s a blinker, but still good. And that one’s Zapata, twice winner, a Tassel Dom he is. And that’s Jujutla. My champ.”

  He opened the coop and lifted the bird out for Tod.

  “A murderer is what the guy is. Speedy and how!”

  The cock’s plummage was green, bronze and copper. Its beak was lemon and its legs orange.

  “He’s beautiful,” Tod said.

  “I’ll say.”

  Mig tossed the bird back into the coop and they went back to join the others at the fire.

  “When do we eat?” Faye asked.

  Miguel tested the stove by spitting on it. He next found a large iron skillet and began to scour it with sand. Earle gave Faye a knife and some potatoes to peel, then picked up a burlap sack.

  “I’ll get the birds,” he said.

  Tod went along with him. They followed a narrow path that looked as though it had been used by sheep until they came to a tiny field covered with high, tufted grass. Earle stopped behind a gum bush and held up his hand to warn Tod.

  A mocking bird was singing near by. Its song was like pebbles being dropped one by one from a height into a pool of water. Then a quail began to call, using two soft guttural notes. Another quail answered and the birds talked back and forth. Their call was not like the cheerful whistle of the Eastern bobwhite. It was full of melancholy and weariness, yet marvelously sweet. Still another quail joined the duet. This one called from near the center of the field. It was a trapped bird, but the sound it made had no anxiety in it, only sadness, impersonal and without hope.

  When Earle was satisfied that no one was there to spy on his poaching, he went to the trap. It was a wire basket about the size of a washtub with a small door in the top. He stooped over and began to fumble with the door. Five birds ran wildly along the inner edge and threw themselves at the wire. One of them, a cock, had a dainty plume on his head that curled forward almost to his beak.