Go Naked In The World

by Chamales, Tom T. ;

  So in reality, Nick said to himself, you are all afraid in much the same way as you were afraid in the war. (That is, if it was true, and it was, that it was much nicer much safer spending the night in a foxhole with a buddy rather than by yourself—at least then you wouldn’t die alone. Either that or your chances of dying in that particular hole would be cut in half. Yes, cut in half—which was something you never allowed yourself to say to yourself; somehow, some way you could always suppress saying that (cutting your odds in half) to yourself. But somehow, some way you could never suppress that silent guilt that came after the suppression.)

  It seemed, then (in the war) as now, that you threw yourselves into each other as thoroughly as you needed to throw yourselves into each other in order to temporarily forget (not kill, mind you, Nick Stratton) temporarily forget that fear (that is if it was true, and it was) that the greater the fear, the more you were prone to be very personal, very talkative in the hole—so talkative if the fear was great enough that the mind seemed to be four hundred yards in front of the words so that what came out wasn’t really very coherent, sometimes sounded even panicky. It was so contagious, this business of fear. I mean a man seemed to lose every ounce of common sense he ever had, sometimes. And being in a hole with a man who didn’t talk sense, especially when there was the possibility of dying, really wasn’t very good for your nerves. You either had to ignore it completely or in a while you ended up talking nonsense yourself. So when you got down to it, the proper antonym for fear wasn’t really courage, Nick thought. In reality, was really something else: it was the ability to keep control of your faculties in a difficult situation.

  And the fact of the matter was that every time they had gotten together at Los Caballeros they had all suddenly lost control of their faculties. In very much the same way that a soldier lost control of his faculties. There was really only one difference. A soldier lost control of his because he was afraid of dying. And they seemed to lose control of theirs because they were afraid of living. And when you analyzed it, it was really quite logical. There was about as much uncertainty in this living as there was in dying, he thought, suddenly enlightened. I wonder, he said to himself, if that is the secret—that once you have learned to cope with life you are then capable of coping with death.

  When you got down to it, it was really very stupid: Standing there on the one hand, pouring whiskey down your throat so fast that you couldn’t possibly retain any of your perspective, while at the same time, with the other hand, looking for yourself in someone else with that same out-of-focus perspective—and telling yourself that what you saw was for real!

  It really was so very stupid, he thought, walking up the beach. Walking slow and feeling the small surf washing occasionally over his feet, feeling occasionally odd, conscious and odd, for walking so openly straight up in the open—exposed. When over by the cliffs there were foliage and ridge lines, concealment and cover. Or was it the enemy that was over in the foliage.

  But, really, it was so very very stupid. I mean, Nick, the very thing you want, or at least think you want, is your individuality. Well, not just individuality. That was easy. But the feeling that you yourself as an individual person were worthy of serious attention and consideration, that your living would be of value to this lifetime and this life—Wasn’t that what everybody wanted basically?

  Well, you certainly weren’t going to find that worthiness out at Los Caballeros, were you? The whole goddamn trouble with all of you was that you thought you ought to change the whole framework of society so that it conformed with exactly the way you thought and felt. And if you weren’t able to change at least a fragment of this society for some vague reason, you felt horribly inadequate and defeated. Which was also all very stupid when you thought about it, Nick said to himself. I mean not being able to change yourself on the one hand, and with the other, trying to change the entire structure of society.

  The hell with it. And with you. You think like a sour old man sometimes. You go out and get drunk and do your damndest to get laid and you feel so guilty the next day you have to analyze the whole world. Not yourself, mind you, but the world. Because to really truly analyze yourself would be treading on sacred terrain as far as you’re concerned. And about that you are concerned. The more you think, the more you become confused. And if you don’t think you can’t live, rather, you don’t live, but exist.

  He cut off to his right into the water and swam. Then he began to walk back. He had walked almost two miles up the beach. Walking back he had that odd, conscious and odd, feeling of walking openly, exposed. Fear, really, he told himself. What did he have to fear here in America, with the war half a world away. How hard it was, now, to believe that men were fighting and dying. This moment. It did not really seem possible. To him even, it did not seem possible. He could not really comprehend it. No wonder, he said to himself, that these people cannot comprehend it, when you, just a matter of days away from it, cannot even comprehend it.

  What is wrong with you. The world. That you have to be there, to see it with your own eyes, to feel it, in order to believe it. I guess it was because you all seemed to be born with a talent for not comprehending that which you did not want to comprehend. You don’t want to believe it because it was so frightening, and soon you really don’t believe it. Do you? No, you really don’t. You don’t feel one goddamn thing for those poor bastards that are fighting and dying. Is that what was meant by ‘as you think, you are’—or should it be ‘as you think, you become’.

  What was his purpose in staying in the Army. He would have a job to do in the Army, too. And a certain social life that was certainly as much a social life as a civilian one. In the Army he wouldn’t have the freedom he would have as a civilian. And more than likely he would be billeted with someone he didn’t get along with. And probably assigned to some martinet that he didn’t get along with any better than he did with Old Pete. More than likely he would be assigned to some West Pointer. And he didn’t get along with any West Pointer, ever, and doubted if he ever would.

  You just wouldn’t have the freedom you wanted and needed so much now. Not in the Army you wouldn’t, he told himself. At least if you had a civilian job you could quit if you weren’t getting along with the people you were working for. The trouble was, what kind of a job could he get? A job that wasn’t too high pressure and that he wouldn’t get so involved in that he lost himself. He knew how easy it was for him to get involved in anything. He either threw himself into something totally or avoided it completely. Whether that was an asset or a liability was one of the things that he hadn’t as yet determined. Drinking-wise, it was certainly a liability.

  Maybe, for awhile, he would even take a job with Old Pete. That is if they could come to some reasonable agreement about the amount of traveling that would be involved. And the hours. Certainly if he played it right, played like he was actually doing Old Pete a favor by going to work for him, played like he really didn’t want to work for him because the particular business itself didn’t appeal to him, then Old Pete would certainly agree to those terms. Then Nick could have the weekends to himself. And have time to do some reading in the evening.

  Of course there was the matter of money. Certainly Old Pete would pay him well. At least well enough so that he could do some of the things he wanted to do. At least well enough so he could be independent. Maybe have his own apartment on the Near North Side. Somewhere near Nora’s place, maybe. I wonder where she could possibly have been these last two days, he asked himself.

  The sun was up high now, high in its arc and warm, and he was walking fast and sweating freely, and when he had walked back almost a mile from where his beach towel was, he decided to swim it.

  Yvonne was there by his towel when he came out of the water.

  “Did I ever catch hell,” she said.

  “What did you say to him?” Nick said.

  “Nothing,” she said.

  “Nothing?” Nick questioned, sitting down.

 
“Of course not, Nick. That’s the only way to handle Dad. lust stand there like his every word was the gospel, was a part of the greatest sermon you ever heard, and don’t say a word. After a while he’s not mad at you any more. It’s very simple. I mean he begins to think that you can’t be really very bad, you certainly must have some intelligence to appreciate so thoroughly what he has just told you. Then you just go about your business,” she said. Then giggled. “What it gets down to, I guess, is that after a while he begins to feel (because you haven’t said anything) either very great and very important or that he’s talking to himself. Either way, he stops much sooner than if you open your mouth. Like you do—Where have you been?”

  “Up the beach. Talking to myself.”

  “You’d better slow down, Nick. You can’t do it all in one day.”

  “That’s what I’ve been thinking.”

  “You do believe in God, don’t you?”

  “I thought about that, too. I think every man does, in his way. I certainly believe Christ was some man. When you think about Him it can really make you hurt. It really wakes you up, makes you see how little courage you really have.”

  “You have courage, Nick. You proved that in the war.”

  “Not that kind. Courage as we know it was a faҫade you lived behind and died behind. I’m not talking about the kind of courage you have in a war, or in a football game, or in a baseball game. Or the kind that Hemingway writes about. The funny thing is that Hemingway doesn’t really write about courage the way a lot of people that debunk him think that he does. He writes about a way of life. I think he’s more admired for his own way of life than for his writing. I mean he goes his own way. Like Old Pete goes his. That’s why Old Pete’s admired. That’s what you have to admire about Pierro, snob that he is. At least he’s establishing a way of life.”

  “Yes, but Hemingway said bullfighters were the only ones that lived life to the hilt,” Yvonne said. “I remember that distinctly. Certainly he was talking about courage then, wasn’t he?”

  “Not the courage of a man in the ring with the bull. No, what he meant, at least what I think he meant, was the courage it took to separate yourself from society, to give up what you had to give up in order to be capable, or should I say properly trained, in order to be able to face that death. Like Christ. The courage to live alone.

  “That’s my idea of courage. I think it is the true courage. I think that is why we admire personal courage so in war, in sports, in anything here in America. We speak of that courage, place it up on such a pedestal so we can avoid the real one. It’s a vast, secret conspiracy on the part of the world. And it is with us (this conspiracy) so ingrained in us that we don’t realize we have conspired. Certainly, I don’t think it’s a premeditated conspiracy.”

  “You’ve always suffered a lot that way, haven’t you, Nick?”

  “Every man makes his own suffering. Let’s say I’m a little more apt to take pity on myself than most men. I’m a little more sensitive. And emotional. It’s in the Greek blood, I think,” Nick smiled warmly. “Hemingway, in saying what he said about bullfighters, said much the same thing as Christ said in Mark. It was when the man came to Jesus and said, ‘Master, what shall I do that I may inherit eternal life?’ And Jesus said—this I remember exactly—He said, ‘One thing thou lackest: go thy way, sell whatsoever thou hast, and give to the poor, and thou shalt have treasure in heaven: and come take up the cross and follow me.’

  “I think what Jesus meant was sell whatsoever thou must instead of hast. We interpret it as meaning to sell or give up all material possessions. I don’t think He meant that. I think He meant that the man must give up whatever was necessary in order to be pure of heart. And when He said give to the poor, I don’t think He meant the materially poor. I think He meant the poor of heart. But that man, like us, took it in the material sense. ‘For he went away grieved, because he had great possessions.’ There were many, probably, that would have made great bullfighters but didn’t because they couldn’t give up what was necessary to give up.”

  “I love you when you talk like this, Nick. I hate so to see you destroy yourself. As you seem sometimes to want to destroy yourself.” She put her hand on his.

  “I don’t think I’m going to stay in the Army, baby.”

  “I didn’t think you were either,” she smiled. “Remember how we used to read poetry in front of the fireplace.”

  “I remember.”

  “Nick, have you ever been to bed with Ellen?”

  He grinned. “That’s a hell of a question to ask. But I guess it’s all right to tell you. Yes, I have.”

  “She’s good, isn’t she?—I mean in bed.”

  “How did you figure that out?”

  “I saw her with you last night. I don’t know what it was, but that’s the way it struck me. She’s on the beach. I stopped and said hello to her when I was looking for your towel—she’s a bitch if I ever saw one. A real rich bitch.”

  “Are you?” Nick asked her, smiling.

  “No. But don’t think I don’t want to be sometimes.”

  “You a virgin?”

  “Yes. But almost not. I came real close once.”

  “That cadet?”

  “My cadet,” she smiled. “God, I want a man to love. And to love me.”

  “We all want that,” he said. “It’s not easy. I think it’s really about the hardest thing there is. I mean you have to give up things, in much the same way that we discussed a while ago.”

  “I want to give up things for my man.”

  She smiled to herself.

  “Where’s Ellen at?” he asked.

  She pointed. “She said she wasn’t staying long. She was going to the races. And you were going too.”

  “I’m not going.”

  “Good,” she said. “Please take it easy for a while, Nick. I’ve never seen you so wound up as yesterday.”

  “It was a big day.”

  “You’ll find what you want. I know you will. If you’ll only be patient. Please try and be patient.”

  “Okay, baby,” he said and patted her.

  “Who are you going to the wedding with?”

  “I thought I’d ask Nora. But I’ll take you, too.”

  “You will,” she smiled.

  “You’ll have a good time. You’ve never seen Old Pete at a big wedding, have you?”

  “No.”

  “Well, he gets drunk. Real drunk. You won’t have any trouble with him that night.”

  “Daddy, drunk?”

  “It’s hard to believe, but he does,” Nick said.

  “I wish to God Pierro would get drunk some time,” Yvonne said. “Roaring wild drunk.”

  “You’re all woman,” Nick laughed. “He doesn’t get drunk, so you want him to. I get drunk, so you don’t want me to.”

  “That’s not the reason. I’d just like to see him let loose. God, all that’s in him and he won’t ever let loose. It seems criminal.”

  “I’ll go along with that.”

  “Well, he finally got himself a woman, anyhow. A real woman.”

  “No real woman would want him,” Nick said.

  “A woman likes to change a man, Nick. Especially a man that’s got something to be changed. A lot of women would go damn far to satisfy that desire. Even marry to satisfy it.”

  “You’re pretty smart, baby.”

  “I’m no baby any more, Nick. That’s what you don’t understand. Better go over and say hello to your girlfriend.”

  “I think I will. Is she alone?”

  Yvonne nodded.

  “Well, maybe I’ll bring her back here. All right?”

  “You’d bring her anyhow if you felt like it. But thanks for asking,” she smiled.

  “You’re a little bitch yourself.”

  “Thanks. I’ve always wanted to be called that. It’s so nice to have a big brother.” She laughed and he laughed too, and got up and started to walk away.

  “I think you’re all wrong
about Pierro’s woman though.”

  He didn’t even turn around, just kept walking, half laughing warmly to himself, feeling the smooth sand give under his feet, feeling the warm sun to his body, feeling good worked-out tired, and clean from the water that was still cool from winter.

  CHAPTER XVII

  IT WAS a long way from the steel mill district of Gary to St. Mary s, to marriage with a socially prominent insurance broker, to widowhood, to a sanitarium, to membership in the world’s oldest profession. It had taken a remarkably short time. At least three and a half years seemed a remarkably short time to Nora. And, as it was with events that transcended the norm, as war transcended it, the events themselves seemed at tunes but fleeting fantasies, obscure dreams, nightmarish fancies; unnatural and unreal, cloudy and indistinct. As if, yes, the events might have happened, but then again might not necessarily have happened.

  In a sense Nora had not lied to Nick when she had spoken to him about her life. It was just that she left out a few things. Like the fact that she was a prostitute. And that she had been in a sanitarium. And that she really hated her father (even though he had been good to her) hated and loved him all at once because she could not help when she was a small child (before her mother had died) but hear through the paper-thin wall between their room and hers how he had abused her mother sexually. At least it seemed like she was being abused, moaning and crying out like she had the first time Nora had heard them. How vividly she remembered that. And how, later, after the first time, she seemed compelled to stay up and listen, held strangely fascinated even if her mother was being hurt. And how guilty she would feel about the listening. And how confused she was, and disappointed in her mother too, because the next day her parents always seemed unusually happy and hardly ever argued at all. And most important of what she hadn’t told Nick, in fact hadn’t told anyone except her doctor at the sanitarium, was that her husband had been stricken with his fatal heart attack while they were having intercourse.