Hunger and Thirst (10 page)

Unredeemed. He incensed his brain with the double meaning of the word.

Lost forever. Death spot for souls. Burial ground for honor. He trembled. And it was not forced. Why hang rings and watches there! raged his unbridled mind. Why not have the men themselves hanging head down on biers of blue and maroon velvet?

He must take advantage quickly before the rage abated. In his judging mind he knew that.

Closing a tight shaking hand over the knife, he edged over to the door.

The shop was empty.

The sight of it made his heart jolt as his hands shook violently in his pockets as if he were now irrevocably committed. As if circumstances were playing their role and he had now perforce to play his.

He saw the old man in the back, checking the ledger.

He had on a black coat sweater. His shirt was a light violet, striped with dark purple stripes and he had a red, spotted tie pulled into a finger-thin knot under his Adam’s apple. His skin was like leather under the fluorescent tube; like old, greased and well-kept leather.

The old man, alone.

Erick moved to the door, feeling his heart drum loudly in his chest. His hands felt slick and nerveless. God help you if you back down now, he warned himself, you’ve
got
to do it!

He turned his head quickly as the old man lifted his small eyes to peer out through the doorway. He looked at the second-hand typewriters, his lips trembling. He swallowed a hard lump in his throat. I said you
have
to do it! Do you think Leo won’t get what she wants? You know damn well she will. Go on in there. It’s your only choice. Go in there, you fool, and take what belongs to you. Didn’t he want your watch in his filthy window for nine dollars, the watch your mother gave you, your own mother who’s…

The door bell tinkled as he pushed in convulsively, praying that his face wasn’t white and frightened as he felt. He took a deep, quavering breath and, with shaking fingers, pretended to examine a guitar on the counter.

“Closing, what d’ya want?” the old man asked in his thin, grating voice.

Erick cleared his throat. “I came…” he started and then his throat clogged up again.

“I came to pawn my watch,” he said.

In the first second he felt a rush of humiliated terror that he really meant it. Then his mind flung away the idea. Yes, that’s it.
That’s
it! Play the ruse. He urged himself on, swallowing and forcing a casual smile to his lips.

The smile disappeared. It was not a smiling incident. Inside, he felt as clever as he could for having thought of a ruse so quickly. But his hands shook for fear that he would actually go through with it.

All this in a second as the old man spoke immediately.

“Too late,” said the old man, scowling. He waved one thick-veined hand toward the door and looked back to his ledger.

It supplied the strength Erick needed. Suddenly Erick was filled with a complete hate for the old man.

Yes!—his mind shouted—you’re sweet enough and cringing enough when they come to buy, aren’t you? But when they come to sell, it’s different isn’t it?

His muscles clamped tight and his face grew hard and white. He moved toward the old man, his right hand feeling numb on the knife he held it so tightly. He grew dizzy as he moved and thought that the floor was undulating. It seemed as though all the merchandise hanging from the ceiling was trembling, preparing to fall down and crush him as he moved. His heart thudded in slow, tortured beats, like a muffled gong being struck in powerful, rhythmic strokes. He imagined a huge hammer against the gong.
A.J. Arthur Rank Production
, contributed his other mind. He gritted his teeth fiercely, cheeks drained of blood.

The old man looked up, greyish lips moving back from his teeth.

“You heard me.” he snarled and peered over his bifocals.

Erick couldn’t speak. He stared at the old man, his hands shaking, his entire body shaking. He felt suspended in time, struck dumb by nervousness.

“Ya deaf?” the old man snapped irritably.

“I need some money,” Erick said.

He didn’t recognize his own voice. It sounded so weak and trembling and, almost, silly. He couldn’t believe it was his own. The entire thing seemed like a dream. The walls and floor ran away in crazy, unparallel lines. He felt as though he were leaning forward at a sharp angle and the old man were leaning away at a different angle. He wanted to scream. He kept staring at the old man’s blue-veined skull covered with a thin matting of white hair. He thought of chopping it in half. He thought for a moment that it really was an axe he held in his hand and he was going to pull it out suddenly and chop the old man’s head in half. He heard the sound—
plock!
as the axe blade sank into bone and flesh.

“What did you say?” asked the old man, sharply.

Erick looked dizzily into the washed out blue eyes.

“Money,” he said.

The repetition of the all-important word seemed to drive back meaning to his presence there. The shop drew back into sensible proportions. The old man seemed to shrink and he to expand to grow mighty. Power and resolution filled him. He was not afraid of the old man. He hated him and loathed him. He was a bug to be squashed and his resources to be taken away. A sense of fierce elation filled him such as he had not felt since that day in Germany long before.

“Money,” he repeated again, sucking strength from the word. This time his voice did not shake so. It was guttural and threatening.

Then, suddenly, a terror of uncertainty swept through him again and he shook again. He almost sobbed at its debilitating return.

The old man was looking thunderstruck.

His right cheek twitched. He threw a nervous glance toward the door and suddenly Erick shoved out his right hand in the pocket, seeing in his mind some juvenile punk trying to be tough.

“Put up your… hand!” his voice cracked, “Hands!”

It made him furious to be so revealed in front of the old man. A sob of rage broke in his throat then and he pressed against the counter, a snarl bubbling up from his throat.

“Give me your money!” he cried.

“What?” asked the old man, unbelieving, incredulous.

“I said your money!”

“What money?”

“You know what money!”

Erick felt trapped. He felt as if this useless exchange of words was going to go on all night and nothing would be accomplished. He wanted to run for the door and never come back. But he was trapped now, he had to have the money.

The old man was moving back. “Look out now,” he said, “Look out.”

“Give me your money!”

Money, money, money, mimicked his mind, is that all you can say?

“All right now, all right,” said the old man, “Now you just watch yourself. You just watch yourself.” He kept backing away, glancing nervously toward the front door.

“I said no one is coming!” Erick said furiously and then realized that he hadn’t said it before. And he almost added—What I mean is I meant to say no one is coming, you see.

“Stop talking and stop wasting m-my time or I’ll
kill
you!”

He blurted out the words and the sound of his own harsh and brutal voice at once appalled and excited him.

“God, I’d love to kill you, you old bastard!” he heard himself cry. And the word so excited him that he said it again. It gave him a shivering thrill to cry it in someone’s face.

“You old fuck!” he snarled and shook with rising excitement. He felt a wild, raging confidence course his body. He stepped behind the counter through a small opening and reached out one clenched hand for the old man’s throat.

The old man’s Adam’s apple dipped down suddenly and up again and what color there was in his face fled. He turned quickly toward his lead box, sucking in breath.

“Keep your hands off me!” he cried hysterically. “Just don’t ya touch me!”

“Open the box.”

His voice was clear now, really clear. The old man’s abject fear had given him reassurance, complete assurance. He took a deep, exulting breath. I’m all right, he thought. I’m all right!

The old man turned to face him with money sprouting from his fists. Erick grabbed it with a sneer and stuffed it into his left coat pocket remembering calmly that it was the only pocket that didn’t have a hole in it.

“You’ll be sorry for this,” the old man suddenly snapped in a burst of unexpected defiance, “They’ll
get
ya for this.”

“Shut up!” he cried and suddenly wished the world could hear him, see him standing there, indomitable and frightening. Complete sense of power poured over him. He felt as if he could pick up the old man with one hand and hurl him across the store.

“You have more money. Where is it?” he asked, now almost loathe to end it he was enjoying it so.

“I haven’t no more,” protested the old man, sounding almost offended, “I don’t keep no more on hand.”

Words tore from Erick’s lips almost by themselves.

“No, you don’t need any more to give poor guys nine dollars for watches their m-mothers gave them, do you!” he cried, “You don’t…”

He felt the terrible numbing realization that he had given himself away. The old man’s eyes had narrowed, he could not hide it. The room blackened for a second before Erick’s eyes and almost spun away.

Then, suddenly, impelled by some hidden instinct of rage and self protection, he jerked out his right hand that clutched the knife and drove the hard white fist into the old man’s mouth.

The old man went staggering back with a cry of astonished pain, his arms flailing at the air for balance. His elbow shattered the glass door of a counter cabinet and, as he fell, his glasses slid off one ear and flopped down over his open mouth.

Erick whirled and plunged out into the aisle, sprinting for the door over the squeaking floorboards. He almost tripped over a paint-chipped blue and white kiddie car that stuck out from under a table in the middle of the aisle. My God, the irrelevant thought flew through his brain, how could a man sell a kiddie car for drink?

He skidded over the floor and hit against the door and fumbled for the handle.

He couldn’t imagine how the old man got up so fast.

“Stop!” yelled the old man.

Erick threw a frightened glance over his shoulder and saw the old man pointing something at him. He couldn’t see what it was, the old man seemed to blend into his surroundings of junk. But he saw the old man’s hand wavering and he thought he saw great dark drops falling from the old man’s right arm.

“Don’t you move!” ordered the old man.

He jerked open the door and plunged out into the night.

It didn’t sound like an explosion. More like someone coughing loudly.

Then it seemed as though a been had stung him in the right shoulder. He had been stung once in camp and it felt just the same. Only this time the bee didn’t back off leaving only his stinger. The bee kept on flying, its whirring wings carrying it into him until it had buried not only its stinger in his back but its entire hot, buzzing body.

He staggered as he turned the window corner and started up Third Avenue. At the corner he turned again and his long shaking legs carried him up the dark street. Wild excitement shook his heart and his limbs.

His shoulder felt numb for half a block, he was too excited to feel anything. But then, as he kept running, it began to burn and he felt his body twitch with a sudden knifing of pain.

He kept running. No one chased him and there were no shouts behind him. He couldn’t understand that. He kept running, his hands still in his coat pockets clutching the bills and the knife.

The night swept by him, dark wavering buildings rearing up and jumping past, the black sky rolling overhead like a stage backdrop on rollers. The pain in his back flared up once more, getting worse and his left leg almost buckled. A streak of red-hot pain gouged the flesh all the way down to the ankle. It felt as if someone had pressed the end of a redhot branding iron against his leg and drawn it down quickly.

It was like running in a dream. The city moved by him and yet seemed to bring him no closer to his room. He felt the air scorching down his throat as he sucked it in. His hat almost flew off and when he threw up his right arm to catch it, he almost screamed at the nerve-searing pain. He felt a stitch in his right side.

People watched him run. He paid no attention to them. It was only when he saw a policeman at one corner that he slowed down and, gasping for breath, walked slowly by him. He wondered if there were any blood on the back of his coat. His heart throbbed like a bat struggling to free itself, as he walked past the policeman.

Oh God, if he should stop me, he thought. And his legs trembled and he thought he was going to fall down. He tried not to grimace at the awful white pain in his shoulder that was like a ripple slowly spreading and encompassing his entire body. He tried not to whimper as he walked. He tried to force himself to think of the money he had now and the freedom.

I’ll get this thing fixed tomorrow, he planned. It’s just a flesh wound as the hero always says. There are doctors who will fix it. There are plenty of them who’ll do anything for money. Then he wondered if it were true or if he had imagined it because he’d seen it in a movie. And he worried that he wouldn’t have enough money to get the wound fixed much less have enough to get out of town.

Sure you will, he told himself, you have plenty of money. I saw twenties in that pile you got. He wanted to take the money out and see. But he didn’t dare.

Then the pain drove away all thoughts. He bit his lower lip to keep from screaming out. I’ll get it fixed and I’ll get out of here, he insisted to himself. I’ll do it, I’ll do it, Oh God!

The house.

It seemed to have sprung up from the dark earth. He groaned, suddenly thinking about the three long, slanted flights of stairs he had to climb.

He stood at the bottom looking up in terror. Suppose he couldn’t make it? Suppose he fainted and they found him unconscious on the stairs and took his money?

No!
He hadn’t gone through all this just to give up now. He’d get up those stairs. There wasn’t a power on Earth that could stop him.