Wait For The Wagon

by Mary Lasswell

  “Lissen, bud, don’t you try nothin’ like hangin’ a rap on him. We seen everything that happened an’ he never even got out of his chair.”

  “It’s heresy!” Miss Tinkham said.

  “Heresy,” Mrs. Feeley shouted. “It’s a goddam lie!”

  “Just a moment now,” Dr. Freemartin said. “I am speaking psychologically. I didn’t say it was an actual, overt act. It was a conversion, a projection of the sexual self.”

  “Your mind would gag a maggot,” Mrs. Feeley said at last.

  “I’m a Freudian, madam. Well, what have you to say for yourself?” He put his hand on Old-Timer’s shoulder. “So you won’t talk? Come down to my clinic and we’ll give you the shock treatment.”

  “If you can get a word outa him.” Mrs. Feeley punched Dr. Freemartin sharply in the ribs.

  The analyst leaped two feet into the air, banging the top of the table, spilling three beers.

  He shrieked as he went up: “A sneak atomic attack! A sneak atomic attack! A sneak atomic attack!”

  “Goddlemighty!” Mrs. Feeley cried. “How do you shut this thing off?”

  “Don’t ever touch him,” Uremia said. “He’s jumpy.”

  “I wouldn’t touch him with a borrowed stick,” Mrs. Feeley said. “I was only gonna ask him, if he was so smart, why he didn’t stop bitin’ his fingernails?”

  Dr. Freemartin was trembling violently. He pointed to Mrs. Rasmussen. “And she suffers from suppressed desires.”

  “I ain’t got but one,” Mrs. Rasmussen said, “an’ that’s to punch you in the nose.”

  “More of these aggressive tendencies,” Dr. Freemartin mourned.

  “We didn’t ask for no free samples,” Mrs. Feeley said. “Now put your skates on and get on with your keyhole peeping or whatever your grift is.”

  “I like your hew-mor,” the doctor smiled. “You could overcome your difficulties with scientific help.”

  “Dammit, I ain’t got no difficulties! Not till you come along an’ horned in. Now beat it, before I call a cop.”

  “In this town?” Dr. Freemartin smiled. “I am a criminal psychologist and well known to the police.”

  “That’s the first thing you’ve said that I can believe,” Mrs. Feeley said.

  “No doubt you know the hypocritic oath?” Miss Tinkham said.

  “Know it backwards,” Dr. Freemartin assured her. “Under the tender administrations of the Freudians, I was able to slip my strait-jacket and become a member of the staff of the very institution that cleared up my involved Oedipus Complex. I run the entire analytical rack—section, myself. Who is better equipped? I know both sides. I have been a patient as well as a practitioner. Costs a lot of money to get into our establishment. My patients depend on me for everything—the telephone rings night and day. That’s known as transference. I am frequently shot.”

  “You’re well on the way now,” Mrs. Feeley said.

  “Your patients are…” Miss Tinkham began.

  “All the very best people: alcoholics, dope addicts, murderers…” He lit a cigarette, threw it on the floor, and put the match in his mouth. “Yes, indeed. I have a very exclusive practice: kidnapers, firebugs, homo…”

  “It seems to me you are limiting your field by remaining in a normal, forthright city like Pittsburgh. You should be in Washington.”

  “Not bad. Not bad. I could use you. Our clinic has extensive branches. Now that I’ve told you all about yourselves, how about a few vital statistics?”

  “If you hung us up by our thumbs for a month,” Miss Tinkham said, “we might possibly tell you our first names.”

  “Cagy. Not a bad characteristic in my field. You’d make a good psychologist with that dignified way of yours. Uremia here, the best I could do with her was a masseuse. She was just one great quivering mass of inferiority when she came to me.”

  “If she is your masterwork…” Miss Tinkham said.

  “Well, of course, she’s still pretty dependent. But I am removing the crutches one by one. What could you expect? Born Titian McGonigle, married at fourteen, divorced at fifteen, married again at sixteen, two children, husband a bank-robber. On their fourth anniversary, he shot her in both legs. I changed her name to Uremia De Brie and developed a completely new psyche.”

  “It has quite an aura.” Miss Tinkham wrinkled her nose.

  “How’s your libido?” Dr. Freemartin asked.

  “Under control and none of your business,” Miss Tinkham said. “Really, this catechism is getting you nowhere.”

  “You all married?” he continued.

  “Yes and no,” Miss Tinkham said.

  “It’s a shame not to perpetrate the specie,” Dr. Freemartin said. “You’re almost normal. Bring; me a double gin, Crusher.”

  “So you met the head-shrinker?” Crusher said. “Guess he was pretty sore over you bustin’ up our little girl’s act…”

  “It was the only time they clapped,” Mrs. Feeley said. “That all the show you got? I’m gettin’ tired of this YMCA. Unless you got something with some tassel-swingin’ to it, I’m hitting the sack.”

  “She’s our main feature,” Crusher admitted. “The doc here is buyin’ you a drink. You girls gotta keep your stren’th up for that long ride to San Diego.”

  “San Diego? San Diego?” Dr. Freemartin’s slithery eyes lit up.

  “What’s wrong with it?” Mrs. Rasmussen closed her hand around the neck of a beer bottle.

  “Magnificent spot,” Dr. Freemartin cried.

  “The trains are still runnin’, buses, airyoplanes, and if you don’t like none o’ them, you can go by boat or drive your own car. What’s holdin’ you?” Mrs. Feeley said.

  “I am subject to motion sickness—the extreme delicacy of my nervous structure prevents me from riding in the common carrier. Such a journey could only be made under the most happy circumstances. If I could stop whenever I felt like it, and be assured that I would not be subject to a continuous whizzing motion, I am sure I could make the trip successfully. I have long contemplated such a move. My practice here is so extensive, considering the many sidelines in which I am interested, that I am in a condition requiring complete rest. The climate is not salutary. The smog. I need a vacation in the worst way…”

  “That would be in Hollywood,” Miss Tinkham said.

  “Yes, I could lie on the sands and look at the stars.”

  “Or vice versa,” Miss Tinkham said.

  Dr. Freemartin whinnied again.

  “Quite a little bit of sex there,” he said. “Try some gin.” He signaled the waitress. “Have some gin, all of you. Or anything else you want.” He opened a small cardboard box and threw a handful of small white tablets into his mouth.

  “Eatin’ those like they was salted peanuts,” Mrs. Rasmussen remarked.

  “Mild sedative. Nothing but nembutal,” he said.

  Miss Tinkham was kicking Dr. Freemartin’s shins under the table.

  “The Pawnee Indian is the most nauseating of the tribes,” she said.

  “Goddam if this ain’t turnin’ into a free-for-all,” Mrs. Feeley said. “I’ve had a bait. Let’s go!” She got up and pushed the table forward just as a shrill whistle sounded. The lights went up and she counted eight tall policemen, led by a heavy-set man in plain clothes.

  “Don’t move, anyone. The place is under arrest,” he said. The police collared the youngest customers seated at the tables and snatched up the drinks. They seemed to be trying to recover what remained of the cigarette butts.

  “Ain’t this a crock!” Mrs. Feeley said. “We’re pinched when we’re too tired to fight.”

  “We’d like to oblige you, but we simply cannot stay.” Miss Tinkham reached out and took a policeman by the sleeve. “We are on our way to San Diego and we have to make an early start in the morning…”

  “Lady, you’re not going anywhere. Everyone here is held as a material witness.”

  “You can’t hold us,” Mrs. Feeley shouted. “We ain’t commit
ted no missendeemer!”

  “Don’t try anything, ma’am, because we have the number of every car parked here tonight and the State Police will be on you like a swarm of bees.”

  Dr. Freemartin slid quietly under the table and was crawling toward the door marked GENTS when the officer in plain clothes collared him.

  “I’d like a word with you,” the detective said. “You are Crudleigh Freemartin?”

  “Don’t give your right names, anybody,” the psychiatrist shouted. “They can’t do this to me. I’ll show ’em!”

  “I’ve got a search warrant for that clinic of yours, Doctor. The State Chemist is going to have a look at those Angel’s Kisses your friend Dasey dispenses.”

  “I’m not talking,” Dr. Freemartin said. “I’ll get my lawyer in…” The detective gave him a sharp jab with his thumb and Dr. Freemartin jumped into the air. “A sneak atomic attack! A sneak atomic attack…” The detective slapped him sharply across the face and he shut up.

  “What’s the beef?” Mrs. Feeley demanded of the detective. “We ain’t done nothin’ but drink a few beers. You can’t hold us.”

  “Something in this establishment is distinctly not Kosher, and we’re going to find out what it is.”

  Mrs. Feeley was speechless.

  “The height of depravity.” Miss Tinkham sat down. “I sensed at once the vicious quality of the atmosphere. Of course, we will co-operate with the authorities in every way possible.”

  “We was eyeball witnesses!” Mrs. Feeley said.

  Crusher Dasey and Dr. Freemartin were scuffling with the policemen.

  “Wait till the boss hears about this,” Dr. Freemartin screamed, “he’ll bust you so far down you’ll never get back. Let me at that phone. I’ll make you sorry you were born—your boss is no Third Rail! Ten to one, this was your idea! You can’t hold these people.”

  “We can and will,” the detective said. “Are you coming quietly or do you want the full-course dinner?”

  “Don’t pay any attention to him, ladies. Just make yourselves at home. I’ll be right back!” Dr. Freemartin moved on ahead of the detective.

  “We’ll have to take you in for questioning,” a policeman said.

  “I don’t mind goin’ to jail so much as I hate bein’ double-crossed, sucked in by this slimy son of a…” Mrs. Feeley sputtered.

  “Release ’em on their own recognizance,” the detective said. “You can stay wherever you want to, but don’t try to run off. We’ve got all the cars watched.”

  “Word of honor,” Miss Tinkham said. “Your name, please?”

  “I’m Chief Connolly, of the Vice Squad. How’d you get in here?”

  “We stopped for the night at the recommendation of a young man we met on the road. We’re on our way, or rather, were on our way to San Diego after a visit in New York to Mrs. Feeley’s nephew, an officer in the United States Navy.”

  “We’ll not detain you any longer than we have to, but you did see the minors being served. We’ve got to close these people out. Tomorrow being Sunday, I mean today,” the inspector looked at his watch, “you’ll have to wait for court on Monday morning.”

  “That’s white o’ you,” Mrs. Feeley said. “All right if we finish our beer?”

  The police left, herding Dr. Freemartin and Crusher Dasey ahead of them. The sullen boys and girls clung in groups near the front door. Uremia slithered out of the corner where she sat wordlessly after wrapping herself in part of the tablecloth.

  “Rotten, tough place,” Mrs. Feeley said.

  “I used to work in one where they had to close up on Sunday so they could pump the blood outa the cellar,” Uremia said.

  “You can give us your pedigree tomorrow while we’re waiting for the wagon,” Mrs. Feeley said. “Miss Tinkham, reckon we can find that cabin? I could sleep on a rail fence this minute I’m so pooped.” Miss Tinkham helped herself to the small flashlight that Crusher had abandoned in the melee.

  “Just a loan,” she said. “The number must be on the key.” Mrs. Rasmussen and Old-Timer followed. Uremia was left alone in the booth.

  “No use gettin’ the bags outa the car,” Mrs. Feeley said. “I’m too tired to undress. Everything started out so nice, but now look at us! Fouled up like a married mess cook!” The bar was deserted. The bartender had taken French leave along with Gloria. Mrs. Feeley slipped under the counter and quickly fished six quarts of beer out of the cooler. “Gawd knows we need ’em,” she said. “I’m blue as a bastard on Father’s Day.”

  Dave had not exaggerated when he said the beds at The El Casablanca were comfortable and clean.

  “Not but what I’d a slep’ on cement.” Mrs. Rasmussen was turning back the covers and mattress pads for a closer look. “Kinda late to look after we slep’ in ’em.” She grinned. Old-Timer snored blissfully in the front bedroom. He occupied a large bed and had his feet resting on the top of the headboard. Mrs. Feeley rolled over and rubbed her gritty eyes.

  “Looks like we slep’ all day,” she said. “This squeeze-play’s got me worried.”

  Mrs. Rasmussen sat down on the twin bed she had torn apart and Miss Tinkham sat up wearily.

  “Sleeping in my hat certainly did it no good,” she said. “And it’s the only one I have to wear in court, except the turban. Turbans have a depressing effect on me. I do wish I had my black horsehair with the kolinsky tails.”

  “It’s gonna take more’n your old hat to get us outa this one,” Mrs. Feeley said. “I ain’t got no appetite, but I’m hungry.”

  “I put the water up for the coffee,” Mrs. Rasmussen said. “Stove works good, everythin’ just as nice. Hope to God that store’s open even if it is Sunday. Nobody’s leavin’ half a can o’ coffee behind ’em with the price the way it is now.” She took her bag and started out the door.

  “Say, Mrs. Rasmussen…” Mrs. Feeley started.

  “I know. They all went off an’ left the bar unlocked last night, ’less that there Uremia locked it up.”

  Mrs. Feeley padded into the next room for a look around.

  “If we gotta stay a few days, it ain’t bad. Not bad at all. Tile bath. Goddlemighty!” Miss Tinkham came to the door to see the excitement. “Television! Right in the cabins! Ain’t that somethin?”

  “I call it hell-evision,” Miss Tinkham said. “We have erred and strayed from our ways like lost sheep. I am surfeited with this carnival existence, the national Coney Islandism. I long for the peace and quiet of the Ark. I miss my French grammar. Ye Old Book Shoppe must be bursting with magnificent bargains in the classics. Shall we ever reach our good life again?”

  “Yeah. The freezyers dryin’ up—bet they ain’t a bit o’ moss or ice-plant between them steppin’ stones! An’ the pretty colored paint all wore off. My sweet peas ain’t in. Not a blade o’ gypsy-filler, no begonias—all the garden knocked hell to skelter. No pot herbs set out for Mrs. Rasmussen. Happens every time you go runnin’ hither an’ non. Swear to God, if we get home in one piece, I’m takin’ a solemn oath not to budge. I ain’t settin’ foot off Island Avenue.”

  “To the Book Shoppe and back, and, of course, the Public Library is as far as I’m going,” Miss Tinkham nodded vigorously.

  “An’ as for me, the corner of G an’ Twelfth, an’ not a step farther; where you can get somethin’ fit to eat,” Mrs. Rasmussen said. She came in followed by Uremia wearing a hostess gown of the most violently shocking-pink iridescent satin conceivable to the depraved mind of man.

  “It lights up at night, like in case you was crossin’ a street an’ a car was comin’,” she explained.

  “Is it the only one you got?” Mrs. Feeley held her hand over her eyes.

  “Oh, no!” Uremia looked shocked.

  “Will you be a good girl an’ go put on another one? I got spots an’ shootin’ stars before my eyes now; then you can have somethin’ to eat.” Uremia put down the paper carton she was carrying and departed peaceably.

  “Only God knows what’s in this sausage,” Mrs.
Rasmussen said. “But probably ain’t as foul as what we’d get at the Ptomaine Towers across the street. No hard rolls—just this blottin’ paper.” She took a crushed and mangled blob of dough from the bag.

  “Repulsive, isn’t it?” Miss Tinkham shuddered. “It reminds me of the grismal practice geography teachers used to perform on Fridays. They emptied the waste-paper baskets and boiled the contents. When it had cooled sufficiently, they made the long-suffering pupils mold it into relief maps.”

  “Sometimes I think there’s nothin’ does you more harm than a education,” Mrs. Feeley said, “’cept that it helps you insult people better, an’ get the dirty meanin’ quicker.” Mrs. Rasmussen had chunks of sausage hissing in the frying pan. Mrs. Feeley snapped the caps off four bottles of beer. Uremia came in the door in a lint-covered black velveteen robe trimmed with fake leopard fur. As the gown spread open in front, Mrs. Feeley saw that she had on tightly tapered leopard-skin pants, tied fetchingly at the ankles.

  “It’s my television costume,” she said.

  “Want I should wake Ol’-Timer?” Mrs. Rasmussen said.

  “Discretion is the better part of valor.” Miss Tinkham glanced at the costume. “Of course, she is more covered in that; although covering seems to enhance…”

  “He’d unravel that quicker’n Houdini could get out of a strait-jacket,” Mrs. Feeley said. “Leave him lay. He’s gotta drive all night when we get loose.”

  “The eggs is better’n I hoped for.” Mrs. Rasmussen stirred them into the sausage and scrambled them. The anemic bread looked a little more like something to eat after she had toasted it in the broiler.

  “Here’s how.” Uremia lifted her beer.

  “We know how,” Mrs. Feeley said. “Who? Who is runnin’ the crooked part o’ that joint? What’s your part in this weddin’?”

  “I don’t know,” Uremia said. “I mean I really don’t. Crusher thought up the zombies.”

  “That croaker…is he really a croaker or a gum-picker? I don’t believe he’s no doctor at all,” Mrs. Feeley said.

  “Oh, he’s got a certificate to be a psychiatrist all right. In fact, he graduated right from the private asylum an’ it seemed natural for him to go to work there. They think a lot of him. The medical doctors acts kinda high-hat about it, but they might just as well get used to the idea because psychoanalyzing is wonnerful! Just wonnerful. You lie down an’ they take down everything you say…”