Some Came Running (28 page)

“Except for Lois,” Dewey said.

“Except for Lois and Martha,” Hubie said.

“Naturally,” ’Bama said. “You didn’t think I was counting them.”

“Which one do you think I ought to take?” Dave said, trying to sound interested. The Walpurgis Night feeling was on him again, with its agonizing sense of being unable to partake, of being painfully aware of being so different all the time. Arrogance boiled up in him again: Why the hell should he have to cater to some goddamned woman, just to make her.

’Bama scratched his head alongside his hat. “Well, I don’t know. It all depends on what you’re lookin for. Ginnie is the easiest made; and she really likes her sex; but she’s hard to get along with sometimes; and she looks horrible, like a regular pig—”

“Looks like just what she is,” Dave said with drunken profoundness.

“Yeah, and Mildred’s the easiest to get along with; and she’s not bad lookin; and she can be a lot of fun, good sense of humor; but when you get her in bed, she’s no good at all, gets all tightened up, doesn’t really like it.

“And Rosalie,” he wound up. “She’s the best looking; and she’s pretty damn good in the hay; but she’s awful damned hard to get along with. But she’s really almost beautiful,” ’Bama added, “if you’re a breast man. But I’d say she’s the hardest one of the bunch to make.

“So there you are.”

“I’ll take Rosie,” Dave said after a pause, in the voice of a man accepting a challenge.

’Bama shook his head. “Don’t never call her Rosie. I mean it. She hates it like poison. And she ain’t got that red hair for nothin. Look, why don’t you wait until you get up there and look them over and talk to them a little bit.”

Dave was about to say no, by God! I’m not scared of any two-bit madam’s niece! but he decided not to. Something about ’Bama’s face. The earnestness.

“All right, I’ll wait,” he said.

“Come on, Hubie,” Dewey said. “We might as well get on up, there.” He got up disgustedly.

“Stay with them,” ’Bama said like a man cheering on the home team. “Do you-all figure on goin long with us later?”

“Nah,” Dewey said.

“We got to work tomorrow,” said Hubie, who had gotten up also.

“Goddam it!” Dewey said, glaring at him. “Where you goin to take them?” he asked ’Bama.

“Indianapolis.”

“In this snow?”

“Hell yes,” ’Bama said. “Snow doesn’t bother me. We could go up to West Lancaster, only we wouldn’t have any place to bed down unless the ferry was runnin to take us across the river where them fishin resorts are.”

“I doubt if it will be,” Dewey said, looking up at the front window.

They walked away, up toward the booth that now had the two girls in it. Everyone in all the booths watched to see what they would do. When they merely sat down with the girls, and ordered beer, a sort of unheard sigh of disappointment went around the room.

“We give them a couple minutes,” ’Bama said, apparently completely unaware of the audience. “To get settled in.” He looked at his watch suddenly, as if he were expecting to time them for two minutes to the second.

Dave thought he looked worn and tired out, with those perpetual purple circles under his eyes and the drawn look around the corners of his no longer youthful jaw. And yet there was an old-time kind of life-eagerness in him, on his face, a sort of ardent interest in everything he looked at, that should have been incompatible with that perpetual sneer of his but evidently wasn’t. Looking at Dave, he suddenly grinned that twisted sarcastic grin, and there flooded up from behind it a shy look so filled with pure animal magnetism and unself-conscious charm that it seemed to drive his personality into the other man like a stake. It was almost as if he had deliberately turned on a switch.

He must really be a woman breaker, Dave thought, when he wants to.

“Why are you doing all this for me?” he asked him.

“Why! You wanted to get fixed up, didn’t you?”

“Yeah but, you don’t go all out like this for every stranger you meet who wants to get fixed up, do you? Is it,” Dave said, thinking of how the other had used his first name Dave so strangely, “is it,” he fumbled, unable to express the subtlety he felt into the simple gross crudities of words: c-a-t cat, d-o-g dog, m-a-n man, intelligent human beings, he thought, millions and millions of them, they went to school, most of them even graduated from high school, s-c-h-double-o-l school. Now, children, say after me: Cats do not have schools. Dogs do not have schools. Only m-a-n has schools. Arent you proud that only m-a-n has schools!

s-m-u-g smug

We can’t even talk. We think we can think though. Oh, nuts.

’Bama was still watching him expectantly. “Is it what?” he said.

“Well, is it because Frank Hirsh is a big shot in this town? Does that impress you?”

’Bama seemed to draw back haughtily. “Impress me? Why the hell should
that
impress
me
?”

“I mean, because it was Frank Hirsh. Frank Hirsh’s brother?”

’Bama stared at him with a greater contempt in his eyes than there had ever been in his sneer. “Hell, buddy, Frank Hirsh don’t impress me. Why the hell should
he
impress
me
? I knew him when he didn’t have but one pot to pee in—back before the war.”

Dave moved his shoulders awkwardly, wishing he hadn’t spoken. He hadn’t meant to offend him, only understand. “Well, you seemed awful nice to me, that was all. It surprised me, I guess.”

’Bama drew up his lip in a contemptuous sneer of real magnitude this time, his eyes showing both disbelief and outrage. “I guess you don’t know me very well. Nothin in this town impresses
me.
I wasn’t nice to you. I just thought you wanted to get laid and didn’t know nobody. It don’t make one good goddam to me if yore Frank Hirsh’s brother or not,” he said coldly.

Dave held his palm out in a sign to slow down. “It
don’t
make one to me, either,” he grinned.

’Bama stared at him. Then he laughed suddenly. “I guess you don’t know me very well yet.” The semi-western hat, evidently worn Dave thought suddenly to show he was not a native of this country but had come here from Alabama, looked somehow ludicrous, but also dangerous, as he leaned on his elbow on the table. “I was about to ask you if you wanted to go on up there now. But I don’t want you to think I’m suckin Frank Hirsh’s nose.”

He leaned back in his chair and said nothing further.

“Well, are you askin me or not?” Dave said.

’Bama sneered. There was a hurt sullenness in his voice as he ignored the question. “This is the goddamnest town,” he said, looking around the booths. “There’s never nothin to do in this damned town. And nobody to do it with. I don’t know why the hell I ever moved back here in the first place, after I got out of service.”

“If you’re askin me, let’s go,” Dave said. “If you’re not, let’s just sit here.” It was the exactly right thing to have said.

“Well, come on,” the tall man said. “We might as well, I guess. There’s nothin else to do around here.”

To Dave, it was as if a great knell of relief had tolled somewhere, informing him that he had been saved from a great catastrophe. He felt correspondingly gay.

“Okay, let’s go,” he said. When are you going to ever learn that you can’t talk the truth with people about themselves? About other people, yes. Gladly. But not themselves. It’s not that they’re lying. It’s that they don’t know. They make damn sure they don’t know. Did you ever see a whore who believed she was a whore? or a Scrooge who thought he was one? or a mother who didn’t believe she was Mary?

“Wait a minute,” ’Bama said, in an almost eager tone. “There’s Wally.”

Wally Dennis was just coming in the front door, complete with cowboy boots, rolled-up pants, Air Force fleece-lined jacket and glints of snow glistening on his bare head. Smitty’s seemed suddenly warm and cozy, as he shut the door on the blast of cold air. Wally spoke happily to Dewey and Hubie sitting with Lois and Martha, but he did not even slow his stride. He came on back, smiling, to ’Bama and Dave at the table, and it was as if ’Bama had known he would.

“Howdy, men, howdy,” he said, nodding. “What’s the matter? You and the men got a mad on?”

“Yore out late,” ’Bama said, grinning. “Are you ridin that damned motorcycle in this weather?”

“God, no,” Wally said. “I’d have her down every fifteen feet, in snow like this. She’s locked up in the garage. I walked. Mr Hirsh,” he said.

“Wallace Dennis,” Dave said maliciously. “Wallace
French
Dennis.”

“That’s right,” Wally said. “You got it
right,
man. And I’ve got a bone to pick with
you.
”

“Yes? What’s that?”

“Aw, nothin. Just kiddin,” Wally said. He swept off the jacket, hung it on the chair back, and sat down holding up one finger to the grinning Eddie. “Everybody grins at me. That is because they know I am a writer. In this town, everybody grins at writers. Not only do they expect them to be eccentric, but they do not think I can be one. I resent it. No,” he said to Dave, “all I meant was I had a date with that chick niece of yours tonight and she stood me up. What did you do to her? She wouldn’t even come downstairs but sent her mother to tell me to go to hell. Or words to that effect.”

“She had an argument with her daddy,” Dave said.

“That’s what I figured. About going to school. You know how I figured? Because every time that happens, she stands me up. See, Frank wants her to go to school, but she wants to go to New York and—”

“I know all about it,” Dave said. “But this argument was about literature.”

Wally nodded. “Well, she asked me and I advised her to go to New York, if she felt like that and wants to be an artist. Run off if she had to.”

“I didn’t advise her anything,” Dave said. “It’s a pretty tough proposition, to break into the stage in New York.”

“True,” Wally said. “True, true. On the other hand, lots of other girls have done it, Mr Hirsh.”

“Yes,” Dave said. “By sleeping with all the stage managers, and producers, and male leads and female leads and coaches, that they have to sleep with first.”

“You forgot the agents,” Wally said.

“And agents,” Dave nodded. “And producers’ brothers-in-law, too, for that matter.”

“I really don’t see what difference all that makes, though,” Wally said. “If a girl really wants to act. If she has that drive to greatness. Girls all get had sooner or later. It seems to me you’re getting old, and conservative, Mr Hirsh.”

“Perhaps you’re right,” Dave said.

“Well, if
we
intend to get laid—sooner
or
later,” ’Bama said, “we better get movin.”

“You getting Dave here all fixed up with something?” Wally grinned at him. “Hey. Hey.”

“Well, I’m tryin” ’Bama said. “It’s them three up in that booth alone. We can’t decide which two. Whyn’t you go along with us and take one?”

“Noo, I guess not,” Wally said, a little wistfully. “Not tonight. I got to work tomorrow. I know your parties. Anyway, I know that Ginnie. She was in the same grade with me in school. She was sleeping with everybody in our class in the sixth grade and even grown men, before I ever knew what it was all about.”

“I admit they ain’t a whole hell of a lot,” ’Bama said. “But it’s the best I could do under the circumstances, on such short notice.”

“’Tisn’t much, but I give it to you in the name of the Lord,’” Wally said, “as my grandmother used to say when she handed her leftovers to the bums. You know, there don’t seem to be near as many bums as there used to be thirty, forty years ago when my grandmother used to feed them,” he said with the surprised air of a discovery. “I wonder why?”

Dave sat silent, listening to the two of them talk, ’Bama with that strange pleased happiness that seemed to come over him whenever Wally was around, Wally with that same strained almost painful effort to be amenable to be
regular
that he had noticed before. My God, had that been today? Perhaps Wally was right: Maybe he
was
getting old, and conservative. Mr Hirsh. It made him mad. Not mad at Wally. But mad at the idea that anybody could think that about him. He looked at him; Wally was still talking frenetically to ’Bama, who was grinning.

“You know, Wally, if you and I love the world too much,” he said suddenly, “that’s not the world’s fault, it’s our own.” Pompous, he thought, pompous.

Wally stopped talking and looked at him thoughtfully. “That’s true,” he said.

“The world didn’t ask us to,” Dave said.

Wally nodded. “That’s right, it didn’t,” he said. “And it’s unnatural of us. And anybody who has this need to love—”

“And be loved by—” Dave said.

“The world, I mean really love,” Wally defined, “not just pretend and give it lip service,” thinking it out as he went along, “I don’t know how to say it, love to the point of self-destruction I guess, is really, when the world hasn’t asked us for it, has no place for it really, is really a real neurotic. Neurotic in the sense of being contrary to nature. How far would an amoeba or a lion get on love?”

“Not far,” Dave said.

“I don’t understand all this hifalutin crap,” ’Bama said, “but if we want to make them women, we’d better get our tails up there. You want to just sit with us, Wally?”

“No. I don’t think so. Thanks. I think I’ll just sit here and drink my beer. I’ve got some things I want to think about,” he said. He turned to look at Dave, who was getting to his feet. “I take back everything I said this afternoon, Mr Hirsh,” Wally said. “Even though I meant it. It’s your affair. You have to work your own way out of the hole. Everybody does.”

“Sure,” Dave said. “From the frying hole into the pan. See you later, Wallace Dennis,” he said, “Wallace French Dennis.”

Wally grinned. “Guess I’ll have to change my pen name.”

“Come on,” ’Bama said. “Dave. If we’re goin.”

He had used the name again, in that same way. Dave followed him, moving in that frightful, boiling energy of arrogant frustration that made everything seem perspectiveless, unconnected, but having drunk enough now to have dulled the painful down into the only dully malicious, followed him up along the bar to the booth, where the three young women sat of whom he was to choose just one.