I stood apart and sized her up. She looked like one of those over-sexed females who, while playing the role of the martyr, manage somehow to get their needs satisfied. She had hardly gotten seated when two other females buzzed in, one of them quite decidedly a trollop, the other just somebody’s wife, and rather rusty and shopworn at that. I was hungry as a bear and getting fantastically tight. With the arrival of the women I completely lost my combativeness. I thought of only two things—food and sex. I went to the can and absent-mindedly left the door unlocked. I had backed up a bit because of a slow poisonous hard on which the brandy had induced and, as I stood thus, pecker in hand and aiming at the bowl in a high curve, the door suddenly opened. It was Irene, the paralytic’s wife. She made a smothered exclamation and started to close the door, but for some reason, perhaps because I seemed utterly calm and nonchalant, she stood at the door-sill and while I finished my piss, she talked to me as though nothing unusual were happening. «Quite a performance,» she said, as I shook the last few drops out. «Do you always back up that way?» I caught her by the hand and pulled her in, locking the door with the other hand. «No, please don’t do that,» she begged, looking thoroughly frightened. «Just one moment,» I whispered, my cock brushing against her dress. I fastened my lips to her red mouth. «Please, please,» she begged, trying to squirm out of my embrace. «You’ll disgrace me.» I knew I had to let her go. I worked fast and furiously. «I’ll let you go,» I said, «just one more kiss.» With that I backed her against the door and, without even bothering to lift her dress, I stabbed her again and again, shooting a heavy load all over her black silk front.
My absence wasn’t even noticed. The Southern boys were clustered around the other two females, doing their best to get them cock-eyed in short order. Ulric asked me slyly if I had seen anything of Irene.
«I think she’s gone to the bathroom,» I said.
«How was it?» he said. «Are you still in love?»
I gave him a wry smile.
«Why don’t you bring your friend around some night,» he went on. «I can always find a pretext to get Irene over. We can take turns at giving her consolation, what?»
«Listen,» I said, «lend me a dollar, will you? I’ve got to eat, I’m famished.»
Ulric always had a way of looking bewildered, nonplussed, when you asked him for money. I had to take him short like that or he’d edge out of it in that smooth, irresistible way he had of refusing. «Come on,» I said, taking him by the arm, «this is no time to fumble and stammer.» We went to the hall where he furtively slipped me a bill. Just as we were approaching the door Irene came out of the bathroom. «What, you’re not going, are you?» she asked, coming up to me and slipping her arms in ours. «Yes, he’s got to hurry off now,» said Ulric, «but he’s promised to come back later.» And with this we put our arms around her and smothered her with kisses.
«When am I going to see you again?» said Irene. «I may not be here when you return. I’d like to have a talk with you.»
«Just a talk?» said Ulric.
«Well, you know….» she said, finishing it off with a lascivious laugh.
The laugh got me in the scrotum. I got hold of her again and pushing her into a corner I put my hand on her cunt, which was blazing, and slid my tongue down her throat.
«Why do you run away now?» she murmured. «Why don’t you stay?»
Ulric stepped in to get his share. «Don’t worry about him,» he said, fastening on her like a leech. «That bird doesn’t need any consolation. He’s got more than he can handle.»
As I slipped out I caught a last imploring signal from Irene, her back bent almost in half, her dress up above her knees, Ulric’s hand creeping up her leg and fastening on her warm cunt. «Whew! what a bitch!» I mumbled, as I slid down the stairs. I was faint with hunger. I wanted a steak smothered in onions and a schooner of beer.
I ate in the back of a saloon on Sixth Avenue, not far from Ulric’s place. I had what I wanted and was still ten cents to the good. I felt genial and expansive, in a mood to accept anything. My mood must have been written on my face because, as I stood a moment at the doorway to take in the scene, a man airing a dog saluted me in friendly fashion. I thought he had mistaken me for some one else, something which frequently happens to me, but no, he was just friendlily inclined, perhaps in the same glowing mood as myself. We exchanged a few words and presently I was walking along with him and the dog. He said he lived nearby and that if I cared to join him in a friendly drink I might accompany him to his apartment. The few words we had exchanged convinced me that he was sensitive, cultured gentleman of the old school. As a matter of fact he intimated, almost in the next breath, that he had just returned from Europe where he had been living for a number of years. As we reached his apartment he was relating a story about an affair he had had with a countess in Florence. He seemed to take it for granted that I knew Europe. He treated me as if I were an artist.
The apartment was rather sumptuous. He immediately brought out a beautiful box of excellent Havana cigars and asked me what I preferred to drink. I took a whisky and settled down in a luxurious armchair. I had the feeling that this man would be putting money in my hand before long. He listened to me as though he believed every word I uttered. Suddenly he ventured to ask if I were not a writer? Why? Well, from the way I looked around, the way I stood, the expression about the mouth—little things, undefinable, a general impression of sensitivity and curiosity.
«And you?» I asked, «what do you do?»
He made a deprecatory gesture, as though to say, I’m nothing any more. «I was a painter once, a poor one, too. I don’t do anything now. I try to enjoy myself.»
That set me off. The words just fell out of me, like hot shot. I told him where I stood, how messy things were, how things were happening nevertheless, what grand hopes I had, what a life lay before me if I could only take hold of it, squeeze it, marshall it, conquer it. I lied a bit. It was impossible to admit to him, this stranger who had come to my rescue out of a clear sky, that I was a total failure.
What had I written thus far?
Why, several books, some poems, a batch of short stories. I rattled on at top speed so as not to be caught in trivial questions of fact. About the new book I had begun—that was to be something magnificent. There were over forty characters in it. I had made a great chart on my wall, a sort of map of the book—he must see it some time. Did he remember Kirillov, that character in one of Dostoievski’s works, who had shot or hanged himself because he was too happy? That was me all over. I was going to shoot everybody off—out of sheer happiness… To-day for example, if he could only have seen me a few hours ago. Completely mad. Rolling in the grass by the side of a brook; chewing mouthsful of grass; scratching myself like a dog; yelling at the top of my lungs; doing handsprings; even got down on my knees and prayed, not to ask for something, but to give thanks, thanks for being alive, for being able to breathe the air…. Wasn’t it wonderful just to breathe?
I went on to relate little episodes out of my telegraphic life: the crooks I had to deal with, the pathological liars, the perverts, the shell-shocked bums sitting in the lodging houses, the slimy, hypocritical charity workers, the diseases of the poor, the runaway boys who disappear from the face of the earth, the whores who try to muscle in and work the office buildings, the cracked pots, the epileptics, the orphans, the reformatory lads, the ex-convicts, the nymphomaniacs.
His mouth hung open like a hinge, his eyes were popping out of his head: he looked for all the world like a good-natured toad that had
