No matter!
He kept running around the landings and leaping down the stairs, running and leaping. His muscles felt like steel, his feet like rubber and there were springs in his shoes.
He felt wonderful!
After a while he thought it was time he reached the bottom of the stairs and he did. He ran out into the street in his sneakers and spun around the corner and rushed into the daytime. People were all rushing around. God they all have the bug, he thought, they’re all full of everloving pep!
He kept bumping into people and they laughed and laughed—it was such fun!
He thought he bumped into John. He kept trying to turn the young boy around but the boy kept turning away, his shoulders shaking with giggles. Come on John, if that’s you! he snapped, still laughing, now perturbed, then laughing again. He turned the girl toward him and she smiled at him and he said Gee, I thought you were someone I knew but she said No, I’m not someone you know but you can have it anyway and he pulled off her dress and she wrapped her arms around his neck and her lips were hot under his and she writhed and it was raining.
He noticed it. He didn’t have anything on under his overcoat and he didn’t have on his hat. It’s on the chair, he thought. It rained harder and harder. He heard it drumming on the tin roof it was his helmet. He sat up in the hole and opened his mouth. God this is silly he said this is silly because I have a canteen full of water. Why should I bother drinking the rain? He felt it soak into his body.
He drank it and drank it. He opened up his coat and he was on Third Avenue and naked. He laughed as the people watched him and he shouted to them—what the hell are you staring for? I’m not a man, I’m a plant. He spread his legs and threw up his arms and threw off the coat completely and the water bubbled and spit on his body and ran in cool streams over him and his pores drank it in. He ran across the street.
He ran and ran. He held onto the rifle very tightly. I’ll have to run like hell I want to get back to the squad before they move out. He kept running over the uneven ground. God I hope John has some food. He thought God am I hungry. Wait a minute, isn’t he dead? But that was silly. Far off he saw a giant blowing on his soup. He sped around a corner and up the hill to the plain. He splashed through a bubbling stream and tripped and fell down in it, laughing and sputtering. He swallowed great mouthfuls of it, of the icy, rushing water and he laughed and laughed. Oh I’d better get out of here and move up before I get lost from the squad. He dropped down on one knee and shot three men as they attacked him. He jumped up. He ran and ran over the huge plain under a shadow and he said that’s the shadow of the giant. So he thought he’s eating his soup and I’ll go across the street to the cafeteria and get some nice beef soup oh boy. He saw a rose in the gutter as he ran over it naked.
He saw another one. He saw roses all over the dark, wet street like blood drops. What in hell’s the matter with the delivery men, he said to himself, grossly offended. Each rose was heavy with rain. He held the heavy, drooping bouquet of them against his face and the big drops ran over his cheeks and into his mouth. He spread open his arms and drank it all in. I’m a plant. Well I ought to get a haircut too because Leo doesn’t like long hair but I find myself a nickel short. Ooh, I’m hungry. He pushed through the door into the food shop.
He sat down at the counter. He could smell bacon and eggs and hamburgers and frying potatoes. Ava Gardner came up to take his order.
What are you doing here?—he asked,—that’s silly.
No, it isn’t—she said—I’m going to play a waitress in my next picture and I have to do research.
Oh, yes, but why are you here wearing the blue nightgown?
I’m supposed to be wearing it in the picture. I’m a model who gets a job in a food shop.
Oh, I see.
You’re hungry—she said.
This rose would look nice in your hair.
He put the rose in her dark, moist hair. She bent over to kiss him and the gown fell away from her arched breasts. You’re so sweet—she said—but you mustn’t do that, not in public. Well you sit against a red background in public—he said—do you realize that they hang you from Third Avenue stands and they call you the goddess of the poorer kingdoms of the mind?
Really! She was shocked. Yes, he said and not only that they call you the goddess of the poorer kingdoms of the I said that Can I order now?
Well that’s a pretty kettle of fish—she said and he ordered fish and finished drinking down the fifth glass of water. My but you’re thirsty, you all are—she said. You say you all but there’s only one of me—he laughed and they kissed on it. Yes I am thirsty, he said, and I’d like some more. She ran a palm over his chin.
You’re shaggy,—she said. That’s what Leo says—he said. Why are you in that room when she’s only two blocks away?—she said. I’d rather not say and if you don’t mind I’d like some water for…
He heard her in the kitchen rattling dishes and utensils and pot covers.
Hey Leo,—he called,—when is it going to be ready.
Pretty soon—she said. He got up and made sure she was in the kitchen. Then he took the roses out of the vase and drank the water. He giggled and he said to himself—well, it’s not exactly like water from a rushing stream but it’s water. He lay down on the couch and started to take his pants off.
Leo came in. She was wearing a light brown silk blouse and a woolen skirt. She sat down by his side and helped him take off his pants. He jerked open the front of her blouse and it ripped. She held out her arms as he pulled it off her and threw it on the floor. I thought you wanted to eat—she said. I do—he said—I want to eat you. Cannibal—she said. He felt the exciting abrasiveness of the shaved hair in her armpits. He ran his hands over the warm flesh at her waist and felt down further. You have on your girdle—he said. Yes—she said—and you’re shaggy. Would you rather I had peachfuzz—he said and she said—No. And he kissed her shoulder and her chest and caressed her soft, milky-white breasts. She ran her hands all over him hot and singing. You don’t mind, do you?—she asked. No, the hell with it—he said—What do I care, all I want to do is lay you over and over. Oh darling, I love you so!—she said—I feel like a high school girl again. That’s a load of shit—he said as he pulled off her clothes—but I won’t tell you so.
They kept kissing. Her lips were hot and wet. He tried to drink the moisture. His stomach felt empty. The bed sprang beneath them, they were in the bedroom. She was underneath. Their bodies were sopping wet and clinging. You don’t think Lynn is coming back do you?—she asked. That’s funny—he said—you look like…
Oh Erick!
Hurry. Hurry. I’m hungry—he said—I’m thirsty.
17
While he slept motionless, in Readsville, Vermont, a graveyard lay flat and still on the edge of midnight, showing the teeth of its lettered stones to a bright moon. And in one corner of the graveyard there was a particular stone that read:
John Foley 1926-1944
Sleep Well, Brave Warrior.
THURSDAY
1
Five o’clock.
A bus pulled away from the corner. An elevated train rattled over the ties. The sky was dull grey. Morning hung in lethargic folds over the city.
He woke up.
He looked down at his body, motionless and slumped.
He felt tinder dry. He felt as though his body juices had evaporated. The defecated matter had dried into a sticky clinging mess. It was like a thin coating of mud on his thighs and upper legs and crotch.
His eyes felt dry. His face felt dry. Heat seemed to hang around his face. It seemed to flutter over him and beat invisible wings in his face. His teeth ached. There was a scummy film over the enamel. His mouth was dry. His lips were dry. His throat felt like a dry basin, a well which tiny men had lined with cotton.
Dully, he lay there, looking down at his body without changing his facial expression.
His organ was hard again.
It was like a rock. He look
ed at it bulging through his pants. He felt the hair clinging to his scalp and forehead as he looked. He heard the city groan and throb into a new day’s life as he looked.
His brain shook itself loose from the mooring of sleep. His mouth distended in a slow, studied yawn. The feeling he had was one of complete dryness. All his moisture was gone. His back was no longer cold. It was hot and dry and flushed. There was a dull aching sensation in his extremities.
He looked at his organ, not quite comprehending the world and his place in it. His mind stumbled sleepily over its thoughts.
Look at it. There it is. The blooming bloody flagpole. The erotic cue stick. The Third Man. The turgid baton. The sawed-off shotgun. The serpent that becomes a rod.
He was amused.
For no good reason, his dry, grease-lined face reflected amusement. His lips twitched, his ears moved. His nose wrinkled and a clicking sound of amusement caught hooks in his throat. A puffing breath of uncontrolled levity thrust between his lips but had no sound.
Sex, mused his mind, still not awake fully. Here I am watching sex unwind itself and no woman appeals to me. I do not care for women or men or children or dogs or cockroaches. Sex is nothing. I am anti-sex.
He turned his head, remembering something.
He looked at Ava Gardner. Still there, his mind observed, still sitting, breasts arched, exciting poor jerks to matinee frenetics. Movies. Stillies. His mind wouldn’t wake up.
It seemed as though his surroundings, his memories were unfolding slowly, little by little, like the plot of a long story. He had to lie there a while to get the total picture.
He couldn’t get it very fast. All he could think of was his one track stream of consciousness. God, don’t start singing a song when you get up because you won’t be able to get rid of it all day and it’ll drive you mad. He remembered writing that down once, thinking it a prodigious remark.
Sex, he thought again. Absolutely nothing. Relative. Dry run. I’m a dry gulch. God, it’s another day. It’s … it’s … Thursday. And Tuesday begot Wednesday and Thursday was the son of Wednesday and …
His nose itched.
He reached up his right hand and scratched it.
Then he let his right hand drop and lie there silently beside him.
It came.
The world seemed to crowd around him. Life suddenly grabbed him by the lapels and shook him violently.
You fool! Did you see that?
He was almost afraid to believe it. His mouth opened to speak but he didn’t speak.
Did I do that? He asked it plaintively. Was it a dream? Did he imagine it or did he really …
Lift his hand?
He raised it up.
He held it up for a long moment and gaped at it in wonder.
True!
Now he was awake, suddenly and completely, his brain teeming with plans again, snapped back from his muse of dying. He turned his head quickly and looked at the glass. His dry tongue flicked out and in like a sluggish, drugged snake.
Water.
A grunt of excitement throbbed his vocal cords. Water. Water!
He raised his arm. It shook like a leaf now, realizing that it had more than just the job of holding itself up. Realizing now that it had a dangerous mission to complete.
It fell against the table—thump! The water stirred and he almost cried out when a few drops splashed up the sides to tantalize him.
His arm hung on the table like a quivering animal, resting after a terrible physical effort. It rested there and the fingers began to grope out. He had to move his arm again, the hand was attached to it. He raised it once more, reached very slowly, painfully, agonizingly.
His hand closed over the head of the rose.
The petals were cool and dry. Slowly he pulled it out from the water. He watched the stem move out magically, break the surface, dripping precious life. He held it until most of the drops had fallen back into the glass. He wished he could wring them out.
Then his hand fell on the table, shaking weakly and he pressed the rose under it. His breathing was fast. His eyes were riveted to the two inches of bubbly water in the glass. Still, warm, bubbly water with a lacelike frond of green glued to the side of the glass.
He pulled out the rose completely.
The stem fell down on the white towel. His heart leaped as he saw a drop of water fly from its one leaf and disappear into the towel, spotting it. He felt almost agonized.
He left the rose behind. His hand rose up trembling again. His throat moved convulsively. He tried to swallow the lump in his throat but he couldn’t. His tongue got stuck to his teeth. Water. Just to wet the dry, parched membranes of his mouth and throat. Just to feel the liquid, the cool liquid run its flowing balm down his throat, lubricating him again. Just to touch it. Just to …
His arm was bent unnaturally. It was painful but he ignored it. He stretched the muscles to the utmost to reach the glass. What the hell do I care about my arm? he thought, it’s more important that I get the water. The hell with …
Then he stopped and felt almost impelled to apologize to his arm for having behaved in so callous a manner toward it. You’re a good arm, he thought, a good arm.
His throat was taut. It ached terribly inside as he kept reaching. Mountain coat and piles of money…
His shaking fingers closed around the edge of the glass.
Be careful! his mind cried out the shrill, wild-eyed warning. If you aren’t careful you might spill the water, the glass might fall from your grasp. God help you if you spill one drop of it. If you do that, so help me I’ll kill you, I’ll cut off your head, I’ll cut out your heart, I swear I’ll …
He had to let go and close his eyes to calm himself from the sudden rage he’d felt in threatening himself with bodily harm should he drop the glass. Take it easy, he told himself. Take it easy boy. Stop calling me boy! his other mind snapped irascibly. He ignored it. He rested his hand and wrist on the table. He knew he had to get the glass soon.
He was beginning to feel a cramp rising in his arm.
God, please don’t let me drop that glass, he begged. Haven’t I been punished enough for what I did? Let me drink, please let me drink.
His face was alive with needles and pins. His face felt as though a horde of invisible ants hot-footed it over his flesh.
His fingers closed over the glass again. He dragged it a little, just a quarter of an inch. Fine, fine, he thought. He pulled it a little more.
The surface of the water rocked maddeningly. The bubbly meniscus dipped and bobbed. Water. Cool, cool water. The song began, sung by a choir in the loft of his mind. In four part harmony.
Cool, coooooool water.
His throat kept trying to dislodge the lump that rose up. Water. He drew the glass on further, a little closer to the edge of the table.
The rose blocked its way.
His pinkie swung down vengefully and poked it aside. Out of the way, idiot!
He pulled the glass still farther, his eyes wide and staring. The irises were green planets floating in a milky universe. The pupils were black dots floating in the green iris circles. Water. A drink of water. Just to get a sip, a taste, a little drink of water, water.
He was so hot and thirsty.
Now his arm was wracked with cramps. The fingers were beginning to feel numb. Oh God help you if you drop that glass! You can’t stop now.
Courage!
A little more effort and the cool, wet water will trickle down your dusty throat in blessing, your terrible thirst will be healed, your need assuaged …
Now the glass was at the edge of the table.
One push and it’ll topple, said the torturer in his brain. He wanted to tear him out of the hidden recesses, from behind his screen and wrench the life from him.
Never mind, he told himself. Take it easy, you’ve got it. Just be careful. Be strong. Be very strong.
His chest heaved with excited, nervous breaths. He had to be strong.
Water.
He saw that scene and knew that he’d die in a second if it happened. Hold on tight!! The order trumpeted in his mind. Tight now!
He took the greatest risk of his life.
He held the glass suspended over the floor, supported only by the knotted muscles of his fingers and wrist and arm.
He drew it over the pit, the chasm, the grand canyon of the floor.
He drew it closer with a wild, half-crazed look on his face, like a conqueror drawing a struggling captive woman to his body. He kept swallowing the lump in his throat. The membranes of his mouth and his tongue drew tight with expectancy. Give me to drink, begged his mind. A little water. Just to drink, water, water, water …
He rested the glass on his chest.
And his chest shuddered with relieved breath. Last lap, he thought. Now to drink. To drink the cool, refreshing water.
Oh God damn every bubble that had evaporated!
He watched the green frond slide into the water. It was a forest bough in the glass lake, weaving in the slight movement of the waters.
He slid the glass across his chest. Over the depression in his bone structure, up the slope to his throat. His face was down, the chin point gouging into his chest.
The glass touched his lips, cool and smooth.
He sobbed without even noticing it. Water! He could almost taste it already. His throat moved with convulsive expectation.
He had to raise his head.
A pang of terror ran through him. It couldn’t possibly be that he was to be thwarted now. Now that the glass was at the very portals of his mouth, actually touching his lips.
But he couldn’t afford to tilt the glass all the way. It would spill. It would run over his face.
You heard me! the cream rose up inside. I said I’d kill you if you spilled so much as one drop!
Hunger and Thirst Page 15